


The Love That Remains

by otto_tis_eratai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bridging the gap in HLV, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dance rehearsals in 221B, Falling In Love, Family, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Hurt/Comfort, John's letter, Lestrade is a good friend, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Mycroft adores Rosie, Nice Mary Morstan, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock babysitting, Sherlock's scars, What happens behind closed curtains, seriously Mary is so nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otto_tis_eratai/pseuds/otto_tis_eratai
Summary: Sherlock Holmes realises his new flatmate cares about him. It's information he doesn't know how to handle.Basically, the story of how Sherlock discovers love, and of how this changes him completely. Predominantly Johnlock, but other characters appear too, because love comes in different forms. Mostly canon compliant.





	1. Series One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone :) This is my first story for this fandom, although I've been lurking around for quite a while. Before season 4 aired I rewatched all the episodes, and I thought, wow, Sherlock sure has gone through major character development! And then this story was born. Basically it's going to be a collection of missing scenes and post-eps that show how much Sherlock is actually loved, and how he slowly learns to love back. All canon compliant except for the last chapter, or at least that was the intention. It's all already written, by the way, so I should be able to update regularly. 
> 
> This first chapter is set during season one, starting from the end of A Study in Pink, and it's pretty much friendship only. The characters that will appear are Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. 
> 
> One more thing, English is not my first language so you may spot some mistakes.  
> Enjoy :)

**1\. Series One**

 

Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to describe the feeling.

They form thoughts and put them into words and then pronounce them. Questions, answers. Whole sentences, monosyllables.

They chat. There’s no deduction to make, no crime to solve. He’s not showing off, he’s not proving he’s the cleverer of the two. They’re just chatting. Word after word, pause, breathe. A chat. Something so very dull, mundane, something that usually belongs to the others, now belongs to him.

He chats with this man sitting in front of him. He learns things about him. Not that he hasn’t deduced them already, but somehow Sherlock lets him speak, and he finds himself interested in the information he’s acquiring. And then, to reciprocate, he says something on the same topic, or closely related.

He notes down, in his mind, that they have quite a few things in common, since the number of times silence fell between them has been stuck at two for the past hour and a half. The more the conversation goes on, the more he feels engaged by it. It’s not a crime scene. It’s not an experiment. Whatever it is, it is engaging him.

They giggle, a couple of times.

He wonders if this is what normal people do in their spare time, if they chat and giggle with other normal people. Dull, he thinks. But not quite as dull as he thought. Not with this particular man sitting in front of him.

They walk home later on, John climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

The feeling hasn’t left Sherlock’s mind yet.

“By the way, if you could just be more careful and spare me a murder the next time, that would be great,” John says carelessly, behind a mask of light laughter, shaking his head.

Sherlock blinks, once, and then again, as he watches John disappear upstairs.

Sherlock wonders what that sentence could possibly mean, what the implications could be, not only the selfish wish to avoid a criminal offence, but the other hidden meaning, to be more careful, an advice, a request.

If the pleasure of a frivolous chat was unknown but fairly understandable, this is something else entirely. Is it just human nature, not to want another individual to decease, he wonders, or is it concern. Does John care about him, Sherlock asks himself for a second, and the answer is evident. John’s choice of words. The tone of his voice.

Yes is the answer.

Sherlock goes to bed that night with this brand new awareness, that his new flatmate cares about him, and that they enjoy each other’s company, and with no idea of what to do with this information.

**

John is convenient.

He shops for groceries. He gets the newspaper. He lets Sherlock borrow his computer, albeit reluctantly. John doesn’t mind the violin, or the body parts in the fridge. Or Sherlock bursting in the bathroom while John’s taking a shower.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” John yells from behind the shower curtain when he hears the door opening.

“I need my toothbrush,” Sherlock replies as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh for God’s sake, sod off!” John barks again, and this time Sherlock does.

Ten minutes later, John approaches his inappropriate flatmate in the kitchen. “For your information, it is not okay to come in the bathroom while your flatmate is having a shower!”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to look up from the microscope. “My previous flatmate didn’t mind.”

“Your previous flatmate?”

“The skull.”

At that, John finds himself completely speechless and drops the argument

John helps Sherlock solve crimes. Not that John’s contributions are ever crucial, but having a second opinion has revealed to be stimulating, if not useful.

John makes tea for Sherlock too when he makes it for himself. John chats. John gets takeaway dinner.

John is convenient, and Sherlock likes having John around. Of course, people we like are always convenient, or we wouldn’t like them, Sherlock believes. Human nature is so dull it’s mind-numbing.

And yet, there’s more. John cares about him, Sherlock reminds himself from time to time. He’s growing accustomed to the idea, and somehow it’s making it easier to trust John. Which, consequently, is good for work, to have a partner you trust.

John is convenient.

**

John cares a lot about Sherlock’s health status.

“Tell me again why you thought it would be a good idea to jump down a fire escape?” John says, crossing his arms to his chest and watching as Sherlock limps up the stairs to their flat.

“The criminal was running away, I had to chase him, obviously,” Sherlock replies. Plus he hasn’t _jumped down a fire escape_ , as John keeps putting it. Sherlock has just skipped the last couple of steps. A few, maybe. Ten tops.

However, he did end up lying face-down on the street and with a sharp pain on his left ankle. Possibly not his most accurate calculation, but he’s fine.

“Sit down, I need to check your ankle. You might need to go to the hospital,” John says as they enter the lounge.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital, I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock remarks, taking off his coat.

“It’s easier to believe it when you say that without limping around,” John points out.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock repeats, distinctly pronouncing every letter of the last word so that John’s slower brain can understand it. Sherlock doesn’t need any help, from anyone. It’s not the first time he gets injured during a case, won’t be the last either.

“Sherlock, either you’re letting me check your ankle or I’m driving you to the hospital right now, your choice.”

John’s insistence is at the same time upsetting and confusing. Sherlock does know that John cares, but displays of such sentiment never fail to startle him. So much energy and thought spent in the form of concern for another human being, it’s a concept that still eludes the great detective.

Eventually, faced with the possibility of having to endure an actual medical visit, Sherlock gives up.

“Fine,” he says, letting himself slump into his chair. “Examine me.”

John does, kneeling in front of him. He removes Sherlock’s shoe and sock with care, holding his foot up with an hand under the detective’s inquisitive gaze. John is relieved to notice the swelling is minor, confirming his initial hypothesis that it’s just a sprain.

Needing to understand the severity of it, he lays his thumbs against the top of Sherlock’s foot, and the detective’s leg automatically jerks up almost kicking John in the face.

“It hurts!” Sherlock complains.

“Sorry,” John says, repeating the action with less pressure. Sherlock kicks again.

“It _hurts_! What kind of doctor are you?!”

John sighs loudly, biting his lip to repress the instinct to strangle his whiny flatmate. He has barely touched Sherlock this time.

“I am _your_ doctor, and if you don’t stop kicking me we are going to the hospital.”

At that, Sherlock blinks. _His_ doctor.

He doesn’t kick again, letting John finish his examination in peace.

“Done,” John announces just a minute later. “Grade one sprain, put some ice on it and rest for a couple of days. See? That was quick.”

Sherlock blinks again, following John with his eyes as he disappears downstairs, probably to retrieve some instant ice from Mrs Hudson.

John’s concern has just spared Sherlock from a trip to the A&E.

John is definitely convenient.

**

John seems to care not only for Sherlock’s health, but also for his overall well-being.

John gets Sherlock to eat regularly, at least something, whereas Sherlock would often forget, lost in his experiments or his mind palace or the latest case or anything less dull than eating.

John cares about Sherlock’s sleeping schedule.

The detective is blending bones, one sleepless night, when John slumps down the stairs and leans against the kitchen door, his eyelids still heavy with slumber.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he asks, obviously upset.

Sherlock blinks, seemingly unable to deduce the reason behind his flatmate’s altered mood. “Experiment. I’m blending these bones to check-“

“I don’t care what you’re doing. It’s three in the morning and that thing’s keeping me up. Go to sleep.”

“I tried to sleep, in vain,” Sherlock states.

“Well I don’t care, do something else that doesn’t require a bloody liquidiser!” John barks, now borderline angry.

Sherlock doesn’t understand, it’s hardly anyone’s fault if he can’t sleep. “My mind is set on this experiment now. I can’t just drop it and do something else,” he explains.

John sighs, loudly, before disappearing up the stairs. He’s back just a minute later.

“Drink this,” he says, pouring a glass of water and dripping a few drops of an unknown medicine in there.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks, suspiciously eyeing the glass.

“I’m not poisoning you, if that’s what you’re asking,” John replies. “It’s a powerful sleep inducer. Drink it and you’ll be out in ten minutes. You can resume your experiment tomorrow.”

Sherlock considers the idea for a moment. He can’t just switch his mind from an experiment to another, but this drug is supposed to switch his brain off completely, get him some sleep. If the only two alternative he has right now are either changing experiment or lie in bed unconscious for a few hours, he’ll choose the latter.

He takes the glass and drinks it all in one smooth sip. Tastes like oranges.

“There, done,” he says, crossing his arms to his chest. “What now? I’m still fully awake.”

“I said it takes ten minutes. Just lay down and wait, I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, John retires back into his room, grinning to himself once fifteen minutes have passed and the noise of the blender still hasn’t appeared again.

He gave Sherlock a vitamin C supplement.

That night, John has conducted a little experiment himself. The placebo effect can fool geniuses too.

Also, his flatmate is more of an overgrown child than he originally believed.

**

Off to a new case.

John’s outside already, calling a cab. Sherlock’s putting on his coat.

He hears the sound of a door cracking open, and regular steps approaching.

“Have you got your scarf, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks. “It’s a bit chilly outside.”

Sherlock mutters some affirmative reply as he rushes outside, wondering in the back of his mind what kind of question that was. He’s well aware of the outside temperature, easily deductible by the current month, the time of the day, and mainly the condensation resting at the bottom of his windows. Plus he never leaves without his scarf.

They arrive in Bethnal Green, where clothes and traces of blood have been found, but without a corpse in sight. Sherlock examines the surrounding, and it takes him approximately two minutes to make the proper deduction.

“I’ll have a better look in case there’s more to it,” he adds, kneeling down to smell the grass next to the abandoned trousers.

John and Lestrade are standing behind him, watching intently.

“He’s bloody amazing,” Lestrade whispers to John, the volume of his voice low but not low enough to be missed by Sherlock’s ears.

“He is, isn’t he? I keep telling him that,” John agrees.

Sherlock can’t help smiling, unable to hide the pleasant feeling that seems to appear every time someone praises his abilities. Mycroft has always been the smartest of the two, it’s a hard truth that Sherlock hates to admit, but a truth nonetheless. When Mummy and Daddy praised someone, it was usually Mycroft. No matter what Sherlock did, Mycroft could always do it better, faster.

“Yeah, an amazing freak.”

Anderson’s snarky, loud remark reaches his ears too, ending his stream of thoughts. Sherlock doesn’t even bother to reply.

“Piss off, Anderson, will you?” Lestrade snaps.

As Sherlock registers the dialogue, something clicks inside his mind. Fascinating.

DI Lestrade did bother to reply to a mean comment. DI Lestrade defended him, took his side, and he deliberately chose to do so when he could have as well chosen otherwise.

DI Lestrade likes him, it’s obvious, or he wouldn’t consult him on a regular basis, and now another obvious fact is that he cares too. Just like John.

Then Mrs Hudson’s remark from earlier that morning replays in his mind, and everything falls into place.

DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson care about his well-being, Sherlock tells himself. That’s a full 200% increase of people who care about him if compared to the data collected just a couple of months earlier.

Once again, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with this information.

**

The ride home is silent, the only sound in the vehicle the taxi radio.

Staring out the window, Sherlock ponders on the events that happened just a short time before, in a darkened pool. He met his enemy, Moriarty, and they were all going to blow up if someone hadn’t called. But that isn’t what concerns Sherlock’s mind. He is used to risking his life on a daily basis.

What tortures his brain, what doesn’t give him peace, is John, the way John was ready to sacrifice himself, and then the speed, the promptness with which Sherlock made sure John was safe afterwards. The crippling fear that shook his mind and heart, that John could die. It hit Sherlock out of nowhere, the sudden, unexpected instinct to protect John, to keep him safe.

John cares about him. A fact.

Sherlock cares about John. Apparently another fact. More data is required.

Sherlock tried to resist, tried to keep sentiment out of this all. He tried to keep John at arm’s length, to enjoy his company without actually growing attached to him. John was convenient.

Somehow, at some point along the way, Sherlock had clearly failed in this lifelong intent to remain alone. He ended up connecting with this person, so different from himself and somehow so similar.

Sherlock has grown fond of John. Sherlock would suffer if something should happen to John. Their lives were now tied together.

Not only dull, Sherlock thinks as they climb the stairs to their flat, also dangerous.

“We almost died in there,” John says. Something very odd happened tonight, beside him risking his life. He’s seen something in Sherlock, the way he reacted, the way he behaved, there was something human there.

“I know. Are you okay?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” John replies. And he is, very much. After their first case, he’s never bothered with trying to figure out Sherlock’s feelings anymore. He just thought Sherlock wasn’t wired like that, he’s all deductions and observations and inappropriate behaviour. A very tall child with a brilliant mind and poor survival instinct.

But now John wonders if there’s more, beneath.

They’re standing in the middle of their living room, facing each other. Sherlock observes his flatmate, trying to understand what is going on in his mind. He can perceive that something’s about to happen, it’s right there, lingering in the air, it’s in John’s eyes and in the way he bites his lower lip to cover up an emerging smile.

And as a matter of fact, John opens his arms to his sides and takes a step closer. “Can I- er, do you mind?”

It’s a rare event that Sherlock finds himself speechless, but here, in this precise moment, reading John’s intentions, he does. The moment he shakes his head, John closes the distance between them and Sherlock is being wrapped in a hug without even realising it. 

He freezes.

John is hugging him. John’s arms are wrapped around his waist. John’s chin is lying against his shoulder. John’s chest is pressed against his own.

“We make a good team,” John says.

Sherlock finds himself unable to reply, or hug back, for that matter. His mouth is suddenly dry and his arms are completely limp against his sides. He can’t recall he last time someone hugged him or even tried to, he’s always considered it dull and unpleasant, but his body’s now releasing endorphins, and it’s yet one more information he doesn’t know how to handle.

John takes a step back after three seconds, and Sherlock releases a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. His pulse is elevated. The sudden lack of contact makes him feel cold. He finds himself wishing the hug had lasted longer.

John’s smiling, not a mocking smirk, an actual smile, that makes Sherlock frown, as his mind races to understand what just happened.

“Good night,” John adds, before climbing the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock is still standing in the middle of the living room, cataloguing this new experience in his mind palace. Hugging John is a pleasant experience. Might want to repeat.

Also, further confirmation acquired on the fact that Sherlock definitely cares about John. Now 100% a proven fact.

No one needs to know though. He can treat this sentiment like he treats every other useless information, deleting it. He can divorce himself from it.

Plus, Mycroft would be so disappointed if he knew.


	2. Series Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to the next chapter! This one covers all of series 2, starting from A Scandal in Belgravia to after Reichenbach Fall.  
> The characters appearing (apart from Sherlock and John obviously) are Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, and Irene Adler. Yes, Irene Adler because it's canon that Sherlock cares about her (he saved her, they still text etc) so I had to write her in somehow. I hope you like my idea?  
> Tags are once again friendship, and fluff. Seriously, a lot of fluff. Beware of fluff because there's tons of it.  
> Well, enjoy :)

**2\. Series 2**

 

Molly Hooper cares, Sherlock realises with disbelief after he reads his own name on the Christmas card. One more person who cares about him, and that makes four of them, all of them in the same room now. What is more, Molly seems to care in a way that is not strictly friendly.

He feels a little sorry for her, because she cares, she got him a present, and he humiliated her. John wouldn’t do that, John is always nice to the people who care about him, even to Sherlock in his worst moments. John is always nice.

Sherlock for a change decides to act like John would, apologising to Molly, and even lightly kissing her cheek, the way he used to do when apologising to Mummy many, many years ago.

He feels better afterwards. He should do this more often.

He hopes John is proud of him.

**

John follows him to his bedroom, just a few minutes later.

Irene Adler has died, and Sherlock hates that he cares about it. He can’t even explain it, he barely knew her, but there was something about her that didn’t leave him indifferent. An instinct to stay as far away as possible, balanced by an inner desire to know more about her.

Mycroft’s voice plays in his head at regular intervals. Caring is not an advantage.

Sherlock has already let himself care about John, with a good reason. John is good. John is brave. John is nice. John is smart. The Woman though, why would her death upset him? Sherlock isn’t used to things he can’t explain, and it bothers him quite a lot.

John knocks at the door, interrupting his thoughts. “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come in?”

Sherlock sighs. “If you must.”

John steps into the bedroom, finding his flatmate lying on the bed, his arms crossed on his chest like a mummy,

Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t in any way acknowledge John. He just feels the mattress dip under John’s weight, sign that he’s sat down next to him

Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Do you need to say something?” he asks.

“I don’t… I’m here in case you want to talk,” John replies.

Sherlock sighs again, louder, his eyes snapping open as he rolls on his side, facing away from John. “Why would I need to _talk_?”

“I don’t know… you look, er… upset.”

“I’m fine. You can go.”

His voice is a bit harsh, probably betraying him, but Sherlock is fairly sure John’s going to leave him alone anyway. He always does eventually.

John has no intention of leaving this time, though. He takes a second to think about something he could say, or even better, do. He remembers when years ago he was much closer to his sister, and a couple of times, when their mother wasn’t home and Harry was upset for some reason, she would rest her head on a pillow on her brother’s lap and he would stroke her hair.

John Watson is not the kind of bloke who strokes other men’s hair, or hugs them, or who feels protective towards them in general. But Sherlock is different, isn’t he, John asks himself, already knowing the answer. There’s something in Sherlock that sparks John’s affection. It’s just Sherlock.    

A second later, John lays his hand on his flatmate’s shoulder, softly,  barely squeezing. Sherlock feels the warmth of it, he can’t see it but he could trace its contours, the palm, the fingers splayed open, the thumb on his bicep, and then he feels it travel upwards. He presses his lips together, suppressing a gasp as John’s hand lands in his hair, stroking gently.

The first sensation of utter surprise is replaced by a feeling of calm, deep relaxation. His body’s producing endorphins again, he thinks, right before his eyes close on their own accord.

“Is this okay?” John asks tentatively.

Sherlock can’t help nodding. “Enjoyable.”

John’s fingers are soft in his hair, playing with his dark curls, twisting some strands around the fingertips. His pads massage Sherlock’s scalp, from his nape up until they’re barely grazing his forehead, and then down again.

It’s a brand new experience, letting someone in like this, allow another human being to see him vulnerable and to provide comfort.

Mycroft would laugh at him, being so weak, driven by emotion.

Caring is not an advantage.

Caring is not an advantage.

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock says out loud.

He hears John snicker. “Well, it does have its perks, don’t you think?”

Perks, Sherlock thinks, the advantages of caring. As John’s hand still fondles his hair, Sherlock wonders if this is why people usually do it, if they let themselves care, exposing themselves to every kind of danger, only to enjoy the perks of it.

Like this.

Like John’s hand in his hair, a soothing movement. Something that feels good. A gesture of affection. A cuddle.

It’s so hard to divorce emotions when a part of his mind is screaming to go with the flow. To let himself be lulled by John’s fingers and by the waves of shivers they are causing along his spine.

But he can’t just yet. He needs to focus. He needs to think of the camera phone, of how to hack it, he can’t allow any distraction. He needs his violin.

In a smooth movement he jumps up and heads towards the door.

“Wha- where are you going?” John asks, his hand still in mid hair, where Sherlock’s head was.

“Shut the door when you leave.”

Ten seconds later, a violin tune fills the air and John shakes his head, laughing fondly.

**

No matter how hard he tries to forget it, Sherlock quickly finds out that affection is a tough enemy, one that sticks along for a long time.

After Mrs Hudson is assaulted the following week, he puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his side. It’s a relief to hug people you care about after you feared for their well-being, he thinks, and it’s something he’s never thought before.

It’s not quite the same feeling he had when the other party was John. Hugging Mrs Hudson is like hugging Mummy, almost a way to say thank you for all she’s done.

Being held by John, or having John stroke his hair, that felt completely different. It made him feel warm inside, as if his stomach was melting. It was relaxing. It was soothing.

It was dangerously nice. He can’t help hoping it will happen again.

**

Sherlock has accepted it by now, that he has a friend. He and John are friends. John is his friend, and Sherlock is okay with it.

He tried to shut it out, tried pretending it didn’t exist, but the feeling was right there, the need for John, to talk to John, to share his life with John. Sherlock can’t even begin to imagine now what going on a case without John would feel like, but he believes it wouldn’t be quite as much fun. He realised it the moment he heard his own voice utter the words ‘I don’t have friends’. No matter how shocked he was in that moment, he knew immediately that those words did not correspond to the truth of facts.

Alone was easier, but he can’t deny to himself that he likes having a partner. He likes having a friend.

He, Sherlock Holmes, has a friend. He wonders what Mycroft would say to that.

He tries to be nicer to John, when he can. He makes tea the evening they get home from the case, and fills two cups instead of one. John is sitting at the table in the living room, typing something on his laptop.

“Are you blogging?”

“Yep… The Hounds of Baskerville.”

Sherlock hands John his cup while taking a sip from his own and resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Those titles.

However, soon curiosity takes over him, and he leans forward to read the words on the screen. John sits back, letting him. Their faces are mere inches apart.

“Like it?” John asks, smiling proudly at the screen.

Sherlock’s bright eyes quickly jump from a word to the other, reliving their latest case through the eyes of his personal blogger. And only friend.

Towards the end of what is already written, he reads something he doesn’t quite like. “Why did you write that?”

“That what?”

“That I was scared.” He spits out the last word as if it was the farthest thing from truth.

John grins, glancing at his friend. “Because you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were Sherlock, and you know that.”

Sherlock sighs loudly, still staring at the screen. “Okay but why did you have to write it?”

“Because it’s good for fiction. My readers like it.”

Without realising it, Sherlock pouts a little, like a kid who is conceding a victory to someone else. “Fine.”

It’s an unprecedented sight that makes John giggle, just a little, in the back of his throat, and while resuming his reading, Sherlock feels a quick touch of lips against his cheek.

Suddenly the words in front of him blur, and he blinks. John kissed his cheek. John kissed him. It was so quick, so light, so unexpected that Sherlock would be sure he imagined it if it wasn’t for that now familiar sense of warmth spreading in his stomach.

Blinking again, he turns his head slightly to look at John, who doesn’t seem affected at all. He’s sipping his tea, his attention to the screen. Sherlock wishes he could kiss him too, but he doesn’t dare.

He’s never actively wanted to kiss anyone before. He blinks again.

John must have been feeling his eyes on him, because he’s looking at Sherlock now, the edge of his lips crooked up in a smile.

“So do you like it or not?” he asks, nodding at the computer screen.

Sherlock blinks one more time before recomposing himself. “Yes. Yes, not bad.”

He takes a sip of his tea and walks away, pretending what just happened doesn’t already have a special place in his mind palace.

**

It happens very rarely that he goes on a case without John, but it does happens sometimes, when John needs to work. Today is one of those days.

Anyway, John didn’t miss anything, Sherlock thinks as he leaves the dullest crime scene he has visited in a long time. He hates it when cases that look like a 8 or 9 turn out to be a 4.

“What a waste of time,” he complains out loud, walking fast. “I can’t believe no one in your team noticed the hair was fake. Do you even have eyes?”

“Sorry about that, mate,” Lestrade says, walking after him. “I’ll drive you home.”

They’ve almost reached Lestrade’s car when they bump into a woman, same age as Lestrade, probably an old friend of his. As the two briefly exchange small talk, Sherlock rolls his eyes. Nothing duller than acquaintances.

“And wait, isn’t that Sherlock Holmes?” the woman asks incredulous. “I can’t believe you know him, Greg!”

“Yeah, he’s my friend, he helps us out with the toughest cases,” Lestrade says, proudly patting Sherlock’s back twice. “Sherlock, this is Maureen Davis, we went to school together.”

Sherlock absent-mindedly shakes the woman’s hand, while his brain keeps repeating the first part of the sentence over and over again. He had no idea Lestrade considered him to be his friend.

As they drive to Baker Street, Sherlock wonders if the thing is reciprocal. He cares about Lestrade, not as much as he cares about John, but he would definitely be upset if something happened to the inspector. One more thing, Lestrade trusts him, and provides him with work. Without Lestrade, Sherlock could hardly have become the consultant detective he is now. Lestrade brought a positive change into his life, just like John, but different.

He comes to the conclusion that he was wrong. Two is the number of friends he has.

Lestrade is talking as he drives, something about a colleague, Sherlock realises as he comes back into the real world, but he decides to interrupt anyway. “You and I are friends,” he states matter-of-factly.

Lestrade gives him a puzzled look. “Come again?”

“You and I are friends,” Sherlock repeats, not sure about what was unclear about that.

“Er… yes… and…?”

“I was stating a fact.”

A moment of silence follows, in which Sherlock could swear he sees question marks on top of Lestrade’s head. Then, the inspector just shrugs, brushing this conversation off as another strange Sherlock-related event.

“Right… okay, er… so like I was saying, Hugh told the bloke…”

The conversation, or better, the monologue resumes. Sherlock can’t help smiling.

**

As the days go by, something changes in Sherlock’s relationship with John, in a way so subtle that Sherlock wouldn’t even notice if he wasn’t Sherlock. The occasions in which they touch become more frequent than before, although they remain sporadic and limited to definite moments.

It never happens when they’re out on a case. John doesn’t like people talking and assuming things about the two of them, Sherlock knows that. But when they’re home, sometimes, in the evening, John touches him. He ruffles Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock is busy looking into his microscope, or he lays a hand on Sherlock’s back when he walks behind him. He rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder while they watch the telly together on the sofa.

Sherlock couldn’t quite understand it at first, so he treated it all like an experiment, on both himself and John. On himself, to see and catalogue what elicits which reactions, and on John, to study his behaviour and try to understand which factors influence it the most.

However, even when he thinks he’s collected all the data, John’s affection does not become dull to his eyes. Sherlock can’t bring himself to admit it out loud, but he loves it, every little things John does, Sherlock loves it deeply. It goes straight to his heart, makes him feel warm and appreciated. He allows himself to indulge in it, most of the times. He’s never really felt appreciated before, by anyone.

Soon enough, Sherlock finds himself craving more, more attentions, more intimate moments, more John in general, and realises he absolutely has no idea how to ask. He only takes what John is willing to give. When John is in the mood, he initiates contact, so it is fairly logical to assume that if John does not initiate contact, it must mean that John is not in the mood.

One evening, John comes back unusually early from a date, although, as Sherlock can deduce, it did end well, with sexual intercourse, as per John’s wishes.

“I assume it went well,” Sherlock says from his chair when John enters the room, the telly on in the background.

“Yeah, actually, very well… What are you watching?”

Sherlock shrugs. He was in his mind palace, really.

“I’ll pop in the shower and I’ll join you,” John says.

When he’s back, he immediately notices something is different. Sherlock isn’t sitting in his chair anymore, he’s on the sofa, legs crossed. He even moved the chairs so that the visual would be better.

“You weren’t there before,” John states. “You moved.”

“Lumbar pain,” Sherlock replies, unwilling to give away the actual reason. He moved to the sofa so that he can sit next to John, and hopes he will initiate physical contact. Obviously he can’t say any of this out loud.

However, John smirks. “Lumbar pain, hm?” he repeats as he sit down next to Sherlock, watching his flatmate pretend to be completely focused on the screen.

“Yes, it’s what I said.”

“Hm… right… and here I thought you just wanted a cuddle.”

Nothing can stop blood from flooding Sherlock’s pale cheeks, giving them a rosy colour in a matter of seconds, but he still tries to deny the obvious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his crystal eyes staring at the TV in a vain attempt at looking unaffected.

“Right, because you’re Sherlock Holmes and you don’t need human contact,” John says, trying not to make fun of his friend. Too much.

“Precisely,” Sherlock lies, the expression of his face impassable, the flush on his cheeks the only clue giving away his true intentions.

John laughs. “You cock.”

And with that, his arm snakes around Sherlock’s shoulders to pull him closer. Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile as he rests his head on John’s shoulder without any kind of resistance, his senses now inebriated by John’s smell of shower cream.

“Lumbar pain my arse,” John mocks. “You could have just asked, you know.”

They remain like that for a while, snuggled up together. At some point, John’s hand ends up in Sherlock’s hair and combs gently, much to the detective’s surprise. A pleasant surprise, though. The tingling his back, all around his head, following the imaginary path that John is tracing, and Sherlock’s initial resolution not to enjoy this too blatantly gradually fades away under John’s fingertips.

John glances down at him from time to time, at the brilliant man whose curls are tickling his palm, noticing the way he blinks more often than usual trying to resist the temptation to close his eyes. John smiles proudly at the sight, knowing he’s been right all along. Sherlock Holmes is a human being, whether he likes it or not, and anyone who says otherwise has never had the privilege to get to know him like John does.

From that evening, an unspoken code is created between the two of them. Chair means leave me alone. Sofa means please join me.

**

Sherlock, being the smart man he is, soon starts wondering about the explanation behind this new behaviour, why he never liked physical contact before and suddenly he not only enjoys it, he actively seeks it.

It doesn’t take long, really, he just has to put all the factors together and combine it with thorough research.

First, he enjoys John’s company. Second, he enjoys John’s cuddles, his only, while the thought of being touched that way by anyone else makes him flinch in repulsion. Third, he wanted to kiss John that one time, after John pecked his cheek . And lastly, more than once lately he has found himself peeking at John when he was half-naked or wrapped up in his bathrobe after the shower. Sherlock found himself staring at his flatmate’s wet hair, following with his eyes the drops of water down John’s neck until they disappeared in the absorbent fabric.

These last two factors in particular contribute to fuelling Sherlock’s doubts. He never felt anything like this before in his life, no other human being ever sparked this kind of interest in him. Back in university, once, he decided he wanted to try and kiss someone, just to experiment the feeling, see what the fuss was all about, deciding to ignore for a while his utter lack of interest towards any activity of that kind. He would have preferred a man, instinctively, but they always avoided him, and the only thing that Sherlock knew about kissing was the requirement of a willing partner. There was, however, this girl in his physics class. He’d caught her staring at him a few times, deduced her interest in him, and he decided she was going to be the one, although he felt absolutely nothing towards her. It sounded like a perfect plan in his head, but the second he pressed his lips against hers, he was overcome with a sense of repulsion. He knew, in that moment, that women were definitely not his area.

He tried a man months later. A rainy evening, some drugs, and he walked into a gay bar in North London. He looked around. No one really caught his attention, so he just waited to be picked up, anyone would do, for science. The bloke who first approached him wasn’t bad at all, but Sherlock didn’t really feel any desire towards him. Still, they kissed. No feeling of repulsion, this time, just no feeling at all. Sherlock gave up after that. Experimenting with his mind was much more interesting anyway.

With John, however, things are different. Seeing John’s body makes Sherlock wonder what John’s skin feels like under his fingertips, or what John’s lips taste like. Sherlock has formulated various hypothesis on this last point. Sometimes he imagines kissing John after they’ve drunk their cups of tea, and then John’s lips would taste like Earl Grey and milk. Sometimes he imagines kissing John before going to sleep, and then John’s lips would taste like toothpaste.

After thorough online research, some of it frankly embarrassing, he comes to the conclusion that the reason why his friendship with John is so different from the one with, say, Lestrade, is because Sherlock is in love with John Watson.

In _love_ , his mind repeats.

He always expected love to be a firework, something that suddenly explodes in one’s chest, so vast and loud that it takes away all the attention from everything else in life. Something that clouds one’s judgement, like whatever sentiment the Woman felt for him that ended up being her destruction. Instead, his love for John had quietly tiptoed into his life, making its way into his heart, slowly, day after day, tearing down all the barriers it found until there were none left. All of this without ruining Sherlock’s work performance. Enhancing it, maybe.

Having John in his life has made said life better.

However, Sherlock also came to the conclusion that what he feels doesn’t really matter. John doesn’t want to be romantically involved with him, he made that clear several times. To use John’s own words, John isn’t _gay_. Although Sherlock dislikes labels, he recognises he himself probably is what is commonly referred to as a gay man, but that doesn’t mean he’s sure he wants to be romantically involved at all. He would never risk ruining his friendship with John for something he’s fairly sure he doesn’t want. And even if he did want it, he believes he couldn’t handle it properly. He doesn’t even like actually kissing people.

Too many incalculable variables, the risk is too big, and therefore not worth taking.

**

“No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

Sherlock smiles, just a little, a smile that is almost invisible. John, sweet, sweet John. Sherlock might be good with observations, and ideas, and concepts, but John reads people, he understands them. He understands Sherlock.

The detective is so busy looking at his computer that he doesn’t even notice that John has approached him.

“You’re not a fraud,” John says, laying his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Okay? I know you’re not. I’m ready to fight everyone who believes otherwise.”

As Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, he only wishes he could crumble. Molly Hooper was right. He’s sad, scared, the only thing he’s always prided himself on, his mind, is now up for discussion.

He’s afraid for himself, and for John. He needs to protect his friend, all his friends. Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade, even if he’ll be the one who arrests him.

Sherlock knew caring was a massive liability, Mycroft has warned him so many times.

But now, if he’s completely honest with himself, he’s fairly sure he wouldn’t trade any of his friends, for anything. If it means he’ll have to lie about himself for their sake… then so be it. And if he knows Moriarty like he thinks he does, this probably won’t be an unlikely scenario.

He just wishes he could crumble and bury his head in John’s chest, smell the scent of his jumpers that reminds him so much of spring mornings at his parent’s house.

Instead, he just smiles. “Thank you John. I appreciate it.”

“We’ll get through this together, hm? Like we always do, okay?” John says. He waits for Sherlock to nod before bending over and pressing his lips on Sherlock’s temple.

John’s lips are always so soft. Sherlock leans into the touch for the whole second it lasts, silently grieving it when it’s over and John walks away.

**

He tells Molly the plans. Each one of them is different and has a code word that is going to trigger it. Molly was the obvious choice, not only because she has the keys to the morgue. She thought she didn’t count, so Sherlock assumed Moriarty would consider her irrelevant as well.

While in fact, she is the key figure.

They sit across from each other at a table in the lab, and Molly takes detailed notes as Sherlock speaks.

“I’ll study them tonight,” she says once they’re done.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it. “And remember, this is top secret. Don’t ever tell anyone what I told you tonight.”

“I know. I won’t.”

“Not even John.”

Sherlock thinks of John for a moment, of how he will need to pick a fight with him in some ways in order to get the show started. John will probably hate him, but one needs to do what one needs to do.

Sherlock’s brought back to reality by Molly’s hand covering his own. So small. Her hand is incredibly smaller than his own, even smaller than John’s, with thin fingers, as opposed to John’s thick ones. And it’s warm on Sherlock’s cold one.

He stores this information in his mind palace too.

“Your secret is safe. You can count on me,” she says softly.

His answer is almost automatic. “I know.”

And he does know. He knows he can count on people, on his friends. He thinks he needs to have a talk with Mycroft, one day, talk to him about this recent discovery of his – the advantages of caring. Not that Mycroft would understand.

Molly gets up and brushes Sherlock’s shoulder on her way out.

“Oh, and I have a spare bedroom at home… if you need a place to stay after this is over,” she says.

Sherlock nods and thanks her again, his mind reminding him once again that his friends, not his intellect, are in fact his greatest asset.

**

Sherlock sits in Molly’s kitchen afterwards, reliving all that happened in the past few hours.

John, John trusting him and believing in him so deeply he tried to prove him wrong until the very last moment.

_“When we first met, you knew all about my sister.”_

The memory makes Sherlock’s eyes tear up once more, as if he was living it all over again. He remembers his first meeting with John, how he thought he wouldn’t matter, he wouldn’t change a thing.

Look at how he changed you, Sherlock tells himself, still finding it hard to believe that such a good man had wanted to be his friend.

He remembered how, just seconds before falling off the building, he stretched his arm towards John, as a way of comforting him from far away.

_Don’t be sad. I won’t really die. I have a job to do. I’ll be back._

And John’s voice, as Sherlock was lying motionless on the pavement, John’s hand reaching for his wrist, hoping to feel a pulse that wouldn’t be there. It suddenly hits Sherlock that that simple touch of John’s hand on his wrist would be the last contact between them for a while.

He’ll cherish it.

“Well, I’d say everything went smoothly.”

Sherlock was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Mycroft’s steps approach him from behind.

“How did you know where to find me?” Sherlock asks.

“Doctor Hooper told me. I thought I’d stop by and see what my dead brother was up to.”

Sherlock stands up. “As you said yourself, everything went smoothly. Tea?”

He fumbles around in Molly’s kitchen, more as an attempt to hide the residual tears still lingering in his eyes than anything else. Mycroft follows him, completely ignoring his offer.

“So, you want to dismantle Moriarty’s network now, if I recall correctly.”

“I’ll leave in a couple of days… I wanted to attend my own funeral first. You know how much I like drama. Tea?” Sherlock says, switching on the kettle and leaning against the counter, once he made sure his emotions were under control. “And you can take a seat.”

“No thank you. I’ll be on my way in a moment,” Mycroft replies, still standing in front of Sherlock. “And this mission of yours, how long will it last?”

“Six to eight months, I estimated. Possibly ten.”

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement. “And your first destination is…?”

Sherlock’s lips curl up in a provocative smile. “Oh, but what’s the fun for you if I tell you all the details? This way you can entertain yourself figuring out where I am.”

Something flashes across Mycroft’s face, a light in his eyes, a way he glances down at his own shoes for a moment. Defeated, Sherlock would describe it if this were anybody else. As if the answer he provided to Mycroft’s question did not meet his expectations.

It’s just a second, though. Sherlock has barely time to blink that he’s facing once again Mycroft’s polite smile, the one he reserves for every occasion. The only smile he’s capable of, really, together with the patronising one he only reserves for his little brother.

“Well then, I suppose the socially acceptable thing to do now is to wish you good luck, brother mine,” Mycroft says. “Enjoy your… holiday.”

With that, Mycroft leaves, and Sherlock is left laughing mirthlessly at that poor definition. Months away from everyone, on a mission, once would have truly sounded like the perfect holiday. But that was _before_.

Now, Sherlock sips his tea in a kitchen that is not his own, thinking of all the people in his life he won’t be seeing for a while, and thus facing the ultimate truth. If he hadn’t been forced to fake his own death, he would have never done so, not in a million years, because now spending months away from London, away from everyone, away from John, sounds more like a nightmare than a holiday. 

Of course Sherlock doesn’t expect his brother to understand any of this. 

**

Spread out in front of his eyes, the whole breadth of the river Neva. Silent, peaceful, almost entirely frozen. Grey, like the sky above the city.

Everything, from the trees to the roofs, is covered by a white blanket of snow, that creaks beneath his boots as he walks. He shudders in his coat, the cold air stinging his face like a hundred tiny needles.

Saint Petersburg reminds him of London, a much colder version of it, but similar nonetheless. The streets bustle with cars and people and buses, the dome of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral reminds him of Saint Paul’s, the last thing that disappeared from his view as he fell from the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital.

His last day as a living man still haunts his dreams.

A mission that was supposed to last six to eight months has so far had the duration of one year, six months, and twenty-two days, and it’s not nearly over yet.

One year, six months, and twenty-two days far away from home, traveling from village to village hidden in stinky trains, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by forests and valleys and not much else. At least he’s back in a big city now, having again a taste of that urban life he forgot he enjoyed. He arrived in Saint Petersburg yesterday, got a haircut, ate a proper meal in a fast food chain he used to despise. He’ll be back on the road tomorrow, but for now he indulges in a freezing walk across Hermitage Square, breathing in the sight of the former Winter Palace, pretending that it’s Buckingham Palace and that he can now walk to Birdcage Walk and take a cab to Baker Street, and be home, with John.

One year, six months, and twenty-two days without any kind of human contact that is worth of that label. He used to live like this, he thinks, alone, completely isolated from anyone, days on end spent in an empty flat with the sole company of experiments and drugs and the contents of his own mind palace. He used to thrive in this lifestyle, before John came into his life and everything changed, before John arrived and saved him from a life of misery and addiction.

Now, Sherlock has spent one year, six months, and twenty-two days away from home, and some days he feels so lonely that he wonders if he’s dead for real. He might as well be. In days like these, he doubts it would really matter if he actually died.

He misses John like the oxygen he needs to breathe. He’s lost count of all the texts he typed on his phone and then deleted before he pressed Send.

_I’m alive. SH_

_Not dead. SH_

_Very alive and back soon. SH_

_I’m not dead. I’m okay. SH_

_I’m alive, I miss you. SH_

_I’m alive, I wish I was home. SH_

_I miss you. I’m not dead. SH_

_How are you? I’m not dead. SH_

_Still alive. I miss you. SH_

Every time he typed one, moved by a visceral instinct to hear John’s voice even just for a minute, to read his words and imagine him typing them, he then remembered the very purpose of his faked death. Keep John safe.

Therefore every night Sherlock seeks refuge in his mind palace, the only place where the voice and memories of John can keep Sherlock company and soothe his soul. The sound of John’s steps, confident and regular like a march. The half full mugs John left around because he made tea and then forgot about it. The smell of the bathroom after he took a shower. The faint sigh that escaped his lips every time he sat down on his chair after a working day. The twitch of his mouth when someone at the telly said something mildly amusing. The wrinkle that appeared on his forehead, above his nose, when he tried to find the perfect title for his new blog entry. The way he used to stroke Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp, softly tugging at his curls. The heat of John’s hand against his lower back, or his shoulder. Even now, as he begins walking along the Nevsky Prospect, temperatures way below zero, the heat of John’s memories somehow manages to keep him warm.

Sometimes he thinks of Mrs Hudson too, when he sees an old lady on the street. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear her climb the stairs, the pace of her steps so different than John’s, much lighter, slower, and a bit asymmetrical, because of her hip. He hears her voice calling his name with the most affectionate tone.

Then he thinks of Lestrade. Sherlock wonders if he somehow blames himself for what happened, and he hopes not. He wishes he could say that to Lestrade, it wasn’t your fault Graham. If he thinks about it, he can feel Lestrade patting his back twice, like he always used to do. He thinks of Molly, her tiny hand on his own, and the awareness he could always have someone he could count on. She never questioned anything, she blindly accepted to help him, and then she offered her house as a refuge for him.

And then, most surprisingly, he misses his brother. Never in a million years would he have imagined he would miss his brother, but then again, a part of him believes it should have been obvious. Mycroft has always been there. There was not one moment in Sherlock’s life, since his birth, that Mycroft wasn’t there.

He tried to text Mycroft too, a couple of times, but then changed his mind. Any contact would potentially reveal his position, and that was the last thing he needed. He needed to complete his mission, dismantle Moriarty’s network, and it was something he had to do alone.

He just never thought the world would feel so immense without anyone by his side.

He keeps walking down the Nevsky Prospect, trying to imagine it’s the Strand, when at some point he sees something, or better, someone that makes him doubt his own senses.

Behind the windows of yet another food chain, Le Pain Quotidien, he catches the sight of a familiar yet unexpected face. The Woman herself is serving at the tables.

He blinks, startled. The last time he saw her was when he saved her life in Karachi. He told her to run, and she did. Once the danger was gone, he tried to run after her, but she had just disappeared.

And now, about two years later, he finds her in Russia, in a cold winter day that he’ll remember as one of the loneliest days of his life.

Before he can’t rationalise what he’s doing, his legs are taking him inside, taking a seat at one of the free tables. The hat and scarf he’s wearing cover a good portion of his face as he looks down and scrabbles something on a piece of paper he had in his coat.

“Can I get you anything, Sir?” the Woman herself asks in perfect Russian. Without looking up, he hands her the piece of paper. It reads ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner’.

He swears he can hear her heart skip a beat.

“And a cup of tea, please,” he adds.

She leaves without saying a word. She’s back a few minutes later with his tea, and an address scribbled behind the receipt. A time as well, 7 pm.

She still doesn’t say a word. He still hasn’t looked up. A part of him is already regretting this.

Wrong decision, dangerous territory, his mind keeps repeating even that same evening, as he takes the underground and then walks to that address, only to discover it is a block of flats. Squared, dark grey, typical communist architecture.

She invited him to her place.

Any other day he would have walked away without thinking twice, but today he’s as lonely as he’s ever been, and any human contact sounds better than no human contact at all.

He takes the lift and walks to her flat, hesitantly ringing the bell, his heart racing in his chest.

When the door opens, he finds two familiar green eyes and a mischievous grin staring at him. He swallows, hoping she hasn’t heard.

“Good evening Mr Holmes.”

“Miss Adler.”

In spite of his brain telling him to run, he walks in, immediately noticing that it’s a small studio flat, not even remotely similar to her mansion in Belgravia. He quickly deduces she’s actually working as a waitress. It’s not a cover for more ludicrous activities, it’s her actual job.

“I’m relieved to see you’re not wearing your birthday suit tonight,” Sherlock says after quickly glancing up and down her body.

“The feeling isn’t reciprocal, I’m afraid,” the Woman replies.

He’s still looking around in search for new clues when her hands touch his shoulders. He instinctively flinches, before realising she was only taking his coat.

“I must say, it was a pleasant surprise to find out you’re alive,” she says, her hands lingering on him way more than necessary. His own hands start sweating, but he doesn’t let it show, even as he begins to wonder why exactly he thought meeting the Woman would be a good idea.

They sit down next to each other on her sofa. He sits straight, his hands joined in his lap, resisting the urge to fidget, while he can see on the corner of his eye that her pose is way more welcoming. She’s facing him, one knee on the sofa, her head leaning or her hand.

“If it really was a surprise you’re disappointing me, Miss Adler,” he says.

The Woman smirks. “I had some suspicions, but no certainty… now tell me, how did you do it?”

He finally finds the strength to turn his head and face her. “Why would I tell you?”

Instead of answering his question, as he expected, she shifts closer to him until they’re mere inches apart, his eyes tantalised by hers, his heartbeat considerably speeding up.

Wrong, screams his mind. Wrong and dangerous.

“Why are you here, Mr Holmes? Why did you find me?” she asks, almost a whisper.

“I didn’t find you on purpose,” he replies, his own voice lower than he wished.

She raises on both her knees to tower him, and his eyes follow her, trying to guess her next move. And failing.

“You might not have known that I was here, but you did invite me for dinner, didn’t you? Why?”

She’s so close now he can feel her breath on him. He’s paralysed, realising he has no real answer to her question, and this terrifies him. The fear that she may hurt him, or worse, try to seduce him, tightens his throat. This is not why he came here, but what if she doesn’t care?

Danger, danger, danger.  

“Let me make a deduction, will you?” she asks again, her finger tracing his jawline.

“Go ahead,” he manages to choke out.

“You’ve been dead for a while now… your coat is way too light for Russian winter temperatures… it means you weren’t originally planning to come here, you came because it’s the closest thing to London, and the safest, you could easily reach from wherever you were before… you miss home. You miss your friends, your family, even the smallest things you never cared about, you miss everything… you’re lost, the world feels too big, some days you wish you were dead for real... You’re lonely.”

Once she’s done speaking, she sits back as he watches her with disbelief and curiosity, breathing again, his eyes wide open, his mind trying to understand how she could possibly read him like that when he was never able to read anything of her.

“How did you…?”

That is when her lips form a shape he’s never seen before, not on her. A smile, yes, but not her usual flirtatious smirk. Sadness. A sad smile.

“I’m dead too, remember?”

His own lips form a ‘o’ shape, voicing a faint “Oh.” He understands. She was not actually deducing him, she was talking about herself, and it matches. His feelings are understood by another person in the world, the one that is in this very same room.

Suddenly, the Woman isn’t dangerous anymore at all, she’s exactly what he was looking for. Human contact. It’s right there, in her eyes, this very basic need he was craving like oxygen. She’s been craving it too.

A ding from her oven timer interrupts the flow of his thoughts.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Chips,” she replies as she disappears into the kitchen.

“Chips?”

“I find chips a nice indulgence for when I’m miserable.”

When she’s back carrying a bowl of chips, he notices her smile has changed again. Friendly, he would describe it now. He can’t help smiling back. She knew all along why he came here.

“You said you want to know how I did it,” he says. He isn’t able to explain it, but suddenly he has the feeling she won’t tell anyone. .

Sat on the sofa with the bowl of chips between them, Sherlock tells her the story of how he faked his death.  He feels oddly at ease, and for the first time in one year, six months, and twenty-two days, the feeling of loneliness seems to have faded a little.

“These chips are not bad,” he says afterwards. “Though not as good as the ones in Marylebone Road. Best chips in London.”

“Where is that?”

“Close to Baker Street, five minutes’ walk towards Regent’s Park.”

She nods, chewing on another chip. “My favourite was the chippy in Holborn, right behind the tube station.”

It warms his heart to talk about London, in a way he could hardly describe and never had imagined.

“John likes the ones they sell in Camden Town. Overpriced, in my opinion, clearly a tourist trap, but he won’t listen to me.”

His thought always goes to John in the end. He wonders what John would say if he knew Sherlock was in Irene Adler’s studio flat, eating chips and chatting about their city.

Sherlock isn’t aware of the nostalgic smile that has appeared on his face at memory of him and John eating chips in Camden Town, surrounded by young tourists speaking every language of the world. Sherlock would stand still, his gloved hands in his pockets, peering at every single person who would bump into him while walking. John would chat, make comments about some of those people, trying to guess aloud where they were from, interrupting himself from time to time to comment on how delicious the chips were.

“You miss him a lot, don’t you?” Irene asks. “Doctor Watson.”

Before Sherlock can stop himself, he nods. There’s no point in lying, really. Irene understands, she’s living it herself.

 _Irene_ , his mind repeats, wondering when exactly in the last minutes she stopped being the Woman and started being Irene.

“I’m sure he misses you too,” she says rubbing his upper arm for comfort. Funny how a gesture that just an hour ago would have had him jump away in fear now warms his heart instead.

They order a pizza at some point, and spend the rest of the evening, and the night, talking, telling each other stories of the years spent on the run. He trusts her. He could never trust the Woman, but he feels he can trust Irene. He can’t believe he found another friend in such an unexpected place and time of his life.

“You know what keeps me going during the worst days?” Irene says. “I close my eyes and imagine what I would do if I ever had the chance to meet my mother again.”

“You miss your mother?” he asks.

So human, to miss one’s mother, he thinks. The Woman, the Dominatrix, the woman who beat him, is nothing but a human being.

“Yes… you don’t?”

He shrugs. “I’ll miss her more tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“She’s the only one who calls me on my birthday.”

Irene seems shocked to learn that tomorrow is his birthday, and he reveals her that he never really tells anyone. Even John doesn’t know. Being born is not an accomplishment, really, not something he sees the point in celebrating.

She tells him she’ll remember too, from now on.

“What will you do when you see Doctor Watson again?” she asks then.

He never thought about it, usually he focuses on memories rather than imagining what is happening next. Now that he’s prompted, however, he tries to make up possible scenarios. Jumping out of a cake, he jokes. Showing up as a patient at the clinic where John works. Or maybe just sit in his chair while John’s out and watch his face when he realises Sherlock’s not dead.

Then, unprompted, Sherlock tells Irene how he plans to surprise Mrs Hudson, just walking into Baker Street and hoping she won’t have a heart attack. For Molly he thinks of something more subtle, like waiting for her in her lab hidden in silence until she notices him. Graham then, he always parks his car in that dark sinister underground car park, Sherlock could just hide there and suddenly walk out the shadow. He really can’t resist a touch of dramatic. And Mycroft… well, Mycroft will know when Sherlock is back in London.

Irene laughs, and Sherlock feels better now that he has something to look forward to. Reliving memories was fine, but this is different, this lights a spark of hope deep inside his soul. He should have thought of it much earlier.

He sleeps a few hours on Irene’s sofa before sunrise peeks through her curtains and he knows it’s time to get back on the road.

She wishes him happy birthday.

“So… what’s your next destination?” she asks.

“Romania, but it’s no concern. From there however I’ll be travelling to Serbia… the biggest cell is hidden somewhere on the border with Montenegro.”

“And then you’ll go back to London?”

“Hopefully. That’s the plan, yes. What about you?”

“I quite like Saint Petersburg… I might stay here for a while longer. But I’ll have to go eventually, it’s not safe to stay in the same place too long.”

He puts on his coat, his scarf, his gloves.

“Good luck, Irene,” he tells her, and he means it. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Good luck Sherlock.”

She raises on her toes and kisses his lips, softly, quickly, more a friendly gesture than a sexual one.

He blinks, his mind overlapping this experience with his sole previous one kissing a woman. Astonished, he realises no feeling of repulsion has overpowered him this time. This was strangely okay. Sweet, even, if he had to define it with an adjective.

He kisses her again, just as quickly, for science, trying to determine the truthfulness of the data.

The result of this improvised, short experiment is confirmed. Kissing Irene Adler is not disgusting. He blinks again, repeatedly, his mind jumping here and there, pondering on why two similar experiments could have such a different result.

Two are the variables he modified since the previous experiment: time and person. Since the probability of time having changed his hormonal reaction is minimal, he settles for the second option.

Fascinating.

Kissing a person he cares about and kissing a perfect stranger elicit two distinct reactions. He probably should have considered this before.     

“Well well, what was that?” she asks, her voice down a tone, her tongue licking her lips. Her pupils slightly dilated.

At which point, he realises his intentions might have been misunderstood.

“It was for science,” he says.

She laughs. “Have a safe journey. I’ll text you,” she adds.

“I’m counting on it.” And he truly does. He will keep her personalised ringtone, so that every time he hears it he will have the confirmation that she’s doing fine.

“And please, don’t tell anyone about… this. I’d rather be remembered as the Dominatrix in London,” she says next.

He nods as the door closes behind him, Irene waving goodbye until he’s no longer in sight.

The temperature outside is even colder than the previous days, but a newly found strength burns in his chest. He can do this. He can complete this mission, and then go home, and surprise John.

He can see it all in his head now. He can see the joy in John’s eyes as he sees Sherlock isn’t dead. John’s probably going to laugh, shaking his head. “You cock!” John is going to exclaim, before throwing his arms around Sherlock and squeezing him so hard that Sherlock forgets he’s ever been away from home.  

Who knows, they might even kiss. If kissing Irene was sweet, kissing John should be extraordinary.

He can’t wait.


	3. TEH + TSoT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 3! This time I split season 3 into two different chapters, otherwise it was too long. This first chapters deals with TEH and TSoT.  
> Whom to expect: just Sherlock, John and Lestrade. Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mary are mentioned.   
> What to expect: fluff and friendship, as usual. Very minor angst. Half of the chapter is the dance rehearsal scene!  
> Enjoy :)

**3\. TEH + TSoT**

 

Things with John don’t go quite as expected. He isn’t delighted to see Sherlock, he’s angry and disappointed, as Sherlock realises quickly during their conversation.

John doesn’t want to hear explanations as to how Sherlock didn’t die, and gets even angrier when Sherlock reveals there were other people who knew the truth. John makes it clear that he’s livid, and that for the time being he has no intention of pursuing any further contact with Sherlock.

The only moment they touched is John’s hands on Sherlock’s neck, twice, not nearly definable as affectionate, and John’s head against Sherlock’s nose, again, not pleasant at all.

The only thing Sherlock can do is walk away from John, let him be angry, and hope he will change his mind eventually. He will, won’t he, Sherlock wonders. He can’t imagine his life in London without John. Learning that John doesn’t live in Baker Street anymore, nor has he any intentions of moving back, was painful enough.

Thankfully, with everyone else things go exactly according to the plans Sherlock made in the previous months while wandering across Eastern Europe.

Sherlock surprises Molly Hooper waiting for her in the changing room of Bart’s Hospital. She’s startled at first, but then she grins and runs to hug him.

“I’m so glad you’re back, I missed you!” she whispers to his ear.

He hugs her back, holding tight, a bit troubled by the emotion that is quickly taking over his mind and forming a lump in his throat.

Someone missed him just as much as he missed them. He’s home.

Lestrade too conforms to his plan when Sherlock walks out of the darkness in the underground car park.

“Oh, you bastard!” Lestrade says, before hugging Sherlock, thus throwing him completely off guard. He definitely wasn’t expecting to be hugged by Lestrade, but after a couple of seconds of bafflement, Sherlock hugs back.

Before they part, Lestrade pats his back twice.

It’s so good to be home.

After screaming her lungs out in fear and shock, Mrs Hudson hugs Sherlock too, tightly, her eyes tearing up with delight.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she tells him, drying her eyes with her tissue. Then, a second after having pronounced those words, she changes her mind and hugs Sherlock again, ruffling his hair and pulling his head down for a forehead kiss that leaves there the mark of her lipstick.

Home is the best place to be.                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Sherlock meets up with Mycroft the following morning, to discuss the new terrorist attack and play some old-fashioned board games.

“He’s secretly pleased to see you,” Mrs Hudson says at some point.

Both brothers brush it off, both knowing it’s actually very true.

At first Sherlock thinks it might be enough, living without John, but he changes his mind as time goes by. After a case with Molly, he gets himself some chips, hoping carbs would help filling the void John left. Irene would be proud.

He apologises to John, over and over, he compliments him, he jokes with him. They never really joked before, but Sherlock admits that death, even a fake one, changes everything. When finally John apologises and praises him, Sherlock is so happy that he keeps joking, to hear John laugh just once again, such a beautiful sound. Then, as the police arrive and Sherlock feels things are good now, he turns to John and opens his arms, just a little, his palms facing upwards, hoping that John will close the distance between them and envelop Sherlock in a long-awaited hug. John doesn’t. 

Sherlock tries again, and then again, in the following days, but nothing ever happens. Soon he stops trying altogether.

It’s okay, he thinks. He’ll just be happy they’re solving crimes again.

**

There’s something in Mary Morstan that Sherlock can’t define, she’s different from everyone he’s met before.

She likes him, she liked him immediately, he could tell. He interrupted her precious proposal, completely ruined her evening, and she liked him anyway. In a situation in which it was Sherlock versus John, her own fiancé, she sided with Sherlock.

She treats him like a normal person. She’s not impressed by his deduction skills, not the way his other friends are, John included, but she doesn’t tell him to piss off either. She just doesn’t seem to care, one way or the other. His intellect is not the reason Mary likes him.

Sherlock isn’t used to making a good first impression, it never happens, only with John, but then again that time Sherlock showed off his best skills, deducing a detail after another, like a chain he couldn’t reach the end of. It never happened with Mary. She liked him before having heard any of his deductions.

What is even weirder, the thing Sherlock really can’t explain, is that he likes Mary too. He never liked any of John’s previous girlfriends, he would find them insignificant and definitely not worthy of John’s attentions. Conforming to that pattern, and adding the fact that she is the very reason John doesn’t live in Baker Street anymore, Sherlock was supposed to dislike Mary too. Textbook aversion, really.

In general, he doesn’t like people, a fact supported by the scarce number of friends he counts.

Instead, he likes her, truly. She’s unequivocally clever, and frankly a pleasure to be around. She jokes with him. She laughs with him, not at him.

Day after day, Sherlock grows fond of her, helps her with the wedding. Most times John is there too, but it happens once or twice that it’s just Mary and Sherlock, and he enjoys it. She takes him by the arm when they stroll around the city looking for the perfect florist.

“Oh, and I’d like you to help me pick my wedding dress,” she informs.

“That’s a job for a bridesmaid.”

“Oh darling, you’re already John’s best man, you can’t be my bridesmaid as well,” Mary says, and she winks.

Sherlock laughs. He could have rolled his eyes, or remarked that she had misunderstood the meaning, but he laughs.

It’s a feeling he can’t qualify.

**

When Sherlock realises Lestrade did in fact go to the trouble to reach him as soon as possible, he feels a little guilty, just a little. But then again, Sherlock truly is facing an emergency and an insurmountable problem, writing his best man speech.

“You called me here for this?!” Lestrade grumbles, still out of breath.

Sherlock blinks. “Yes.”

He swears he can hear Lestrade muttering a considerably wide range of curses while he storms down the stairs, shaking his head.  

Sherlock blinks again and turns to face his computer, his head in his hands, as the noises outside from helicopters and police cars gradually fade away.

Then, much to his surprise, Lestrade is back.

“All right,” he begins, taking a chair from the kitchen and placing it next to Sherlock’s. “What’s the problem?”

Sherlock is staring at him, trying to understand why Lestrade chose to come back after having expressed clear signs of irritation.

“Is this what you’ve written so far?” Lestrade asks again, nodding at the screen where black sentences cover about half a page of a document.

Sherlock nods, giving up his purpose to understand Lestrade’s motivations and focusing on the speech.

Lestrade reads through it quickly. “Sherlock, this is an eulogy,” he points out just a couple of seconds later.

“Well, yes, I downloaded the template from Google. The main features are strikingly similar.”

Lestrade bursts into laughter, leaving Sherlock very much confused.

“What?”

“Nothing, just… let’s start over, mate, shall we?” Lestrade offers, clearing his throat in an attempt to repress further giggles. “I’ll help you out.”

He does, explaining Sherlock what he’s expected to write in his speech, to start with some feelings before getting to the anecdotes.

“What feelings?” Sherlock objects instinctively.

Lestrade smiles warmly. “You can say something about what makes John special, why he’s your best friend… in your own words, you know. Maybe say something nice about Mary too.”

Sherlock takes notes. It seems so easy, to just say what makes John special, Sherlock has a mental list of at least thirty-six points, but that’s exactly the problem. It’s all in his head. He does love John, very much, but putting it into words and pronouncing them aloud in a room full of people is precisely the reason why he had originally downloaded the template.

“Then I can move on to the funny bits?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good, do you have any? It’s the reason why I called you here in the first place.”

“I may have a couple, but I think John would rather hear your stories.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand at first, but then Lestrade suggests they have a look at John’s blog as a source of inspiration.

“How funny does it have to be?” Sherlock asks. “Should it be embarrassing for him? The book says the groom should feel embarrassed.”

“Well, yes, a bit embarrassing is fine, but, you know… not humiliating? Not something, er… private, that would make his mother want to stick cutlery in her ears, do you know what I mean? Not those stories.”

Sherlock has no idea what he means, which is apparently a source of hilarity for the older man.

Lestrade spends a couple of hours at 221B, letting Sherlock bounce ideas off him, picking the anecdotes he wants to tell. Then, he helps Sherlock writing a couple of actual paragraphs, although, as he keeps repeating, “John chose you as his best man because he wants to hear your own words.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says as Lestrade puts on his coat. “And I apologise for inconveniencing you earlier.”

“Anytime… I’m always around when my friends face their biggest challenges.”

With that, Lestrade pats Sherlock’s back twice before heading towards the stairs.

“Though the next time I’d be grateful if you could maybe tone down the drama in your messages a bit, so I don’t mobilise half of London police force for nothing,” he adds.

Sherlock nods, appreciating Lestrade’s validation of his fears much more than he could ever express with words.

**

“ _Sherlock, mate, I need to ask you a big favour_ ,” John’s voice on the phone sounds slightly distressed.

“Go on,” Sherlock prompts him.

“ _Mary picked a waltz for our first dance, at the wedd-_ “

“I know, it was my idea.”

_“Yeah, great, anyway, my problem is I can’t dance and-“_

“I know that too, John, did you just call me to state facts I’m already aware of?”

_“If you could just shut up and let me finish, okay? I want to impress Mary and not make a fool of myself in front of my guests, so I thought perhaps you could teach me a bit? You know how to waltz, don’t you?”_

Sherlock is taken aback by this odd request, but agrees nonetheless.

When John arrives at 221B, that same evening, he’s welcomed by the sight of the furniture pushed against the walls, and Sherlock standing in the middle of a bare-looking living room, his hands joined in front of his stomach.

“Thank you for agreeing on doing this with such a short notice,” John says.

Sherlock nods. “I am your best man, I couldn’t let you embarrass yourself at your own wedding.”

John smiles, a bit awkwardly, glancing at his own feet, his hands in his pockets. “So, er… how do we start?”

Sherlock has spent the day thoroughly preparing his dance lesson, not wanting to be caught unprepared. They start with the basics.

“Okay, so posture first,” he illustrates, assuming himself the position briefly so that John can copy it. “Right hand on Mary’s shoulder blade, cupping, like this, look at me… With your left hand you take Mary’s right one, and she’ll have the other one on your shoulder seam.”

John gets his arm in position, only touching the void in front of him, before glancing a quizzical look at his friend. “I thought waltz was a dance for two.”

“You don’t need an actual partner at this stage, perhaps later.”

Sherlock positions himself behind John, fixing the height of his arms and grasping his shoulders to help him straighten his back as much as possible. If Sherlock’s heard John’s gasp at the contact combined with the feeling of Sherlock’s breath against the top of his head, he chose to ignore it.

Once the detective made sure John’s in the correct position, the actual lesson starts. First, the box, then the counts. Sherlock remains on John’s side but a step in front of him, so that John can watch what he’s doing and mimic it. Sherlock counts aloud at first, slowly, punctuating each time so that John properly associates it with a step.

One, two, three, one, two, three. After a considerable amount of repetitions, Sherlock stops dancing himself and just watches John, studying his mistakes and correcting them. He’s not bad for a beginner. His movements are insecure and not nearly as gracious as his own, but it’s just been half an hour and he’s doing great.

“Very well, John,” he says. “You’re quick at mastering the art of waltz.”

“Thanks… not to argue with your teaching methods, but wouldn’t it be better if I tried with a partner, or I don’t know, some music?”

Sherlock considers it for a moment, and decides that John is ready for the next step.

“Take off your shoes,” he instructs.

“What, why?”

“I am barefoot. The chances of you stepping on my toes are way too high to let you keep your shoes.”

John does as he’s told, before positioning himself once again. This time, however, his arms are not suspended in mid-air. His right hand is cupping Sherlock’s sharp shoulder blade, his left hand holding the detective’s one.

Sherlock can’t deny how bittersweet the whole situation is. It’s the first contact he has with John since he came back to London. He never even got the hug he’d dreamed of. His only hope was the stag night, last weekend – being known for toning down people’s inhibitions, Sherlock counted on alcohol to get John to embrace him. It didn’t happen. He got a knee touch, if he recalls correctly, his own memories are a bit clouded.

The worst part about this dance lesson, however, is the considerable chance that this is also their last contact. John is getting married in three days, and after that, time will make them drift further and further apart, until they’re just a faded picture in each other’s memories. Sherlock still fondly remembers the affectionate moments they used to share before he was forced to stage his own death.

Now, almost three years later, even this dance feels awkward, especially to John. Sherlock notices the way he looks down, or at his sides, an obvious attempt to ignore the other man’s vicinity, or the way he chews on his lower lip. The way he stands as far away as he can from Sherlock given the position of his arms.

As they start moving in silence, John silently mouthing the counts while staring at his feet, Sherlock closes his eyes, cherishing the feeling of John’s hand in his. Both are a bit sweaty, he supposes for different reasons.

When John steps on Sherlock’s toes, as per Sherlock’s predictions, he mutters a quick apology. The second time it happens, John apologises again, but it comes out with a giggle.

“Jesus, I’m really bad at this,” John says, finally looking up and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. The giggle seems to be contagious, and soon Sherlock is laughing too, softly, his low, vibrating laughter almost echoing in the room.

After that, gradually, step after step, they drift closer, both mentally and physically. John seems more relaxed, the clasp on Sherlock’s shoulder blade less harsh and more resembling the gentle touch it’s supposed to be.

When he thinks John is ready, Sherlock puts on some background music, a playlist he selected on Youtube. He’s composing an original piece for the wedding, but it’s not done yet, and even if it was, he wouldn’t spoil it for the rehearsals.

“How am I doing?” John asks after ten more minutes. The tiniest smile has finally appeared on his face.

“You’re doing fine, John,” Sherlock kindly replies. “You may just be ready to learn the big finale.”

They stop.

“What finale?” John asks.

“The dip.”

As he pronounces those words, Sherlock moves his hand on John’s back and shifts his weight forward, slowly, so very gently, in order not to startle John, who lets himself inelegantly dip down.

They’re face to face now, the tip of their noses mere inches apart.

“This is how you conclude the waltz,” Sherlock explains. “And then of course you kiss the bride.”

John’s breath is warm against his chin, and the desire to kiss him is so overwhelming that Sherlock can’t even fathom it. He presses his lips tightly together to resist.

“Well, can I try?” John asks.

Sherlock is abruptly brought back to reality and away from the fantasy of his lips brushing softly against John’s lower lip. “Yes… yes obviously.”

John does, following Sherlock’s instructions on how to place his hands and feet, he dips the taller man down until, once again, they’re face to face. Or better, face to neck.

“Mary’s not as tall and heavy as I am, it will be easier with her,” Sherlock says, as he tries to shift a bit downwards to meet John’s face. “But yes, the position is correct.”

A new light has appeared in John’s eyes as he finds himself staring into Sherlock’s eyes. It’s strangely intimate to hold him like this, and just as pleasant, so much that John can barely feel Sherlock’s weight in his arms. John is reminded of another time that feels a bit like another life, before Mary, when it was just him and Sherlock against the world. Sherlock doesn’t seems to have changed a bit, except for some more wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead. But his distinctive smell of expensive shampoo, that hasn’t changed, and neither has John’s surge of affection towards him.

They straighten up again, but John’s hands haven’t moved from his friend’s back.

“Have I ever told you how happy I am that you’re not dead?” he asks, his voice no more than a whisper. “That you’re here with me again?”

Sherlock can distinctly feel his cheeks flush at his best friend’s words, at the sweetness and love he can read in his face, something he hasn’t read there in a long time. He nods. “I believe you mentioned it, yes.”

For a second, they just stand there in front of one another, letting sentiment go unspoken.

“Let’s do one more, shall we?” John proposes. “With the dip at the end.”

They do.

But the playlist offers a song after another, and one dance turns into two. “Sorry, didn’t hear the song was coming to an end… Let’s keep going,” John justifies himself.

Sherlock doesn’t complain. He’s loving every second of it, every single instant in which his hand is held by John’s and their arms are around each other and their eyes meet.

Mrs Hudson walks in on them at some point, thinking it was Sherlock playing. They laugh it off, John a bit more embarrassedly than Sherlock, and they take it as an excuse to start another song.

However, John hears now that the final notes are playing, and he slowly dips Sherlock down just in time, while the detective positions his body so that they’re directly face to face.

Neither of them moves away for a full two seconds, Sherlock’s eyes shifting continuously from John’s deep, adoring gaze to his sweet smile, his senses inebriated by John’s smell, cologne, hospital, a hint of Mary’s perfume, and now a tiny bit of sweat that makes it all more real.

And then, just a second later, John’s lips are softly pressing on Sherlock’s flushed cheek, making his eyes widen in surprise and his stomach jump with love.

Sherlock blinks repeatedly as they straighten up, and John’s smile is still there, expressing all the love and tenderness he feels for his best man and had locked inside for the longest time.

With the back of his fingers, he softly brushes Sherlock’s cheek, the other one, not the one still burning with his kiss, a simple touch that takes Sherlock out of his trance and grounds him back to earth, and to this somehow intimate moment they’re sharing once again, after too long.

“Don’t tell Mary you had the first dance,” John whispers.

Any other occasion, and Sherlock would have joked. “Why, I think I will, I want to see her face,” he would have said.

But here, and now, his mind is too clouded with love and the only thing he manages to do is nod. “I won’t.”

And just like it started, the magic is over. John thanks him for the lesson and says he has to go home, Mary’s waiting for him.

Sherlock nods and watches his best friend, the love of his life, leave the flat they used to share.

At least they got one last moment together.

After the wedding, John will look for Sherlock to dance together once more, but Sherlock will never know. He will be home, alone, in an empty flat, busy moving John’s chair far away where he can’t see it.

They’re married now. And they’re having a baby. If he had one last hope that marriage wouldn’t change things, offspring will for sure.

He blinks back tears, and locks himself in his room in the sole company of his secret stash.


	4. HLV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter only covers HLV, mainly I tried to bridge the huge gap that goes from Sherlock collapsing in Baker Street to Christmas Day and explain how Mary was forgiven by both Sherlock and John in those months.  
> About Mary: I personally love her, seriously, I don't think she's evil, plus canonically she isn't, not really, and I also love her friendship with Sherlock, so you will read a lot of that in this chapter. Half is John and half is Mary, with a cameo from Mycroft and Janine, and a mention of Molly. If you dislike Mary you can obviously skip her parts, although some bits will come in handy in the next chapters.  
> Whom to expect: said that already.  
> What to expect: so much friendship, some bed sharing, John finding out about Sherlock's scars, Sherlock coming out for the first time, what Sherlock actually wanted to say on the tarmac.  
> Enjoy :)

**4\. HLV**

 

Sherlock doesn’t believe in coincidences, never has. As Mycroft always says, “the universe is rarely so lazy.”

But Magnussen’s PA happens to be Mary’s bridesmaid, whom he met at the wedding, and who happens to obviously fancy him rotten. If this isn’t a coincidence, he doesn’t know what else to call it.

Sherlock texts Janine, sets a date and then another, with the purpose of tricking her into trusting him, so that walking into Magnussen’s office would be a piece of cake.

Dating Janine is much easier in the beginning, when all he needs to do is play nice and pretend to be interested in whatever she’s saying about herself. Dating women is incredibly dull, he thinks while Janine speaks and he withdraws into his mind palace to perfect the details for his Magnussen plan.

Of course, dating cannot just consist of chats and expensive dinners. At the end of the first two dates, he walks Janine home and kisses her cheek, something that is supposed to make her think he’s a gentleman, at least according to his recent research on the matter.

Janine seems to disagree. When he walks her home after their third date, she grabs his face with both hands and pulls him in for a real kiss. It’s not completely repulsive, but not neutral either. Definitely not sweet, unlike the kisses he shared with Irene. The only thing Sherlock can do is kiss back, his eyes closed, reminding himself there’s a purpose, he’s enduring all of this for a purpose – Magnussen.

He almost gets a gag reflex the second she licks his lips and sticks the tip of her tongue just in, forcing him to pull back. No. No. The gesture itself is too wet to be enjoyable, her tongue is viscid, the idea of her saliva in his mouth simply revolting.

He quickly waves goodnight and jumps on the first taxi that approaches him.

Later that night, he ponders on it again, and realises that sacrifices will have to be made in order to achieve the final goal, Magnussen. If he wants Janine to keep dating him for as long as he needs, he will have to meet all the basic requirements that a man his age is expected to meet during the dating process.

He spends the rest of the night on the Internet for a kind of research that he hopes Mycroft never discovers.

The detailed knowledge he acquired makes him feel calmer the following time he properly kisses Janine, though the instinctive repulsion still lingers there. He wills it away, reminding himself the reason why he’s doing this, for work, his favourite thing in the world, work.

It’s something he keeps reminding himself every time he sees her, as the dreadful awareness of what is about to come makes him flinch.

She touches him above his clothes while they kiss, one evening, in Baker Street. She rubs his chest, his back, his arms. He tries to mimic her movements, more or less, purposefully avoiding her breasts, careful not to lead her on in any way. He will have sex with her if he has to, but he hopes he won’t need to.

He lets her sleep over that night, in his bed, compensating for the fact that they’re proceeding probably too slowly for her on the sexual side. She lays her head on his chest after wishing him goodnight.

The gesture himself doesn’t quite feel as wrong as everything else, and Sherlock closes his eyes and wishes the warm body in his arms was John. John quietly humming in his sleep, John lulled by his heartbeat, John whose smell he was inhaling.

John who kissed him passionately, John who cupped his nape, John who flattened his palms against Sherlock’s chest.

Instead, John is way too far away, enjoying his sex holiday with his wife. Sherlock can’t help thinking that he really envies Mary sometimes.

He waits for Janine to roll away from him in her sleep, then he goes to the kitchen, where his drugs always wait for him, his most loyal friend.

He’s taking his usual bath, the morning after, when Janine opens the door with a teasing smile on her lips. Sherlock forces himself to play his ‘flirty heterosexual boyfriend’ part while she undresses in front of him, occasionally winking and licking her lips, while his mind keeps screaming that this is so very wrong, that he doesn’t want this, he’s not even remotely attracted to her.

She steps inside the tub, stark naked, sits in his lap straddling his hips, starts kissing him. Her breasts press against his chest. Sherlock’s never been a man of modesty, he’s never been ashamed of his naked body. But this particular situation is more uncomfortable than he thought, makes him feel exposed, not in a good way. He has to repress the instinct to cover himself up with his hands.

When her kisses get more frenzied, and her hands start wandering, even Sherlock Holmes can deduce what is going to happen. They’re going to have sexual intercourse. For work.

His heart starts hammering in his chest, faster and faster, as fear paralyses him. As it turns out, sex does alarm him, in fact.

In a last, desperate attempt at willing himself through sex, he thinks of John. It’s John’s mouth on his, not Janine’s. It’s John naked in the tub with him. It’s John’s hand that is traveling lower and lower and…

It’s automatic. The exact second her hand touches his flaccid penis, he grabs her wrist to stop her. One more realisation sinks down on him: he can’t do this. He just can’t.

He said he would have sex with her if he had to, but he lied.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

His throat is clenched, his heart could explode in his chest at any moment now. He’s so terrified he can’t speak.

She smiles, gently, completely unaware of the chaos in his mind.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?”

He shakes his head.

She kisses his cheek. “I’m sorry… we’ll slow down, okay? Do this at your pace,” she says, turning so that she can lean her back against his chest. He finally breathes again, as he wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head.

Now that the danger is gone and his heartbeat is slowing down, he thinks it’s almost nice, to hold someone like this, surrounded by warm water. It’s a level of intimacy he’s never experienced before, never thought he would want to.

It’s even nicer to imagine that this person is John.

And then, just like a slap, his mind reminds him that John is taken, that he’s probably holding Mary right now, and not even remotely thinking about his best friend back in London.

John hasn’t even texted Sherlock since the wedding.

Once the bath is over and Janine has gone to work, Sherlock finds his drugs again. They always help. It’s a vicious cycle he can’t break.

**

He knows he’s really crossed a line when Molly Hooper slaps him, three times, right in the face. She adores him, she respects him, and now she’s so angry with him that she decides to physically hit him.

He lets her. He respects her enough to know she’s right, after all.

He downplays it all, changes topic, still high from the drugs he took that night, but much later that day he texts her, just three words, no signature.

_I am sorry._

A part of him thinks he could use a slap more often.

**

Everything is blurred around him, different shades of white, so bright he can barely keep his eyes open.

Tired, so very tired.

“You’re back, finally,” John’s voice sounds so far away.

If his body is still attached to his head, he doesn’t know, he can’t feel it. He’s fluctuating in a cloud of light that muffles every sound. Slowly, over what could be seconds or minutes or hours, everything comes back to him. He escaped from the hospital to clear things with Mary, to make sure John knew who he was married to, to keep him safe.

Always keep John safe.

The last thing Sherlock remembers is a brief conversation with two paramedics, before dropping semi-unconscious and very much in pain on the floor of 221B.

He wriggles his toes and fingers, almost to check if they’re still there, while he keeps blinking to let his eyes adjust to the light.

John is sitting on the chair next to him, his arms crossed to his chest, his lips pressed together completing the annoyed vibe he clearly emanates.

“You don’t seem happy to see me,” Sherlock mutters, his speech a bit slurred and his voice still thick with drugs.

“I just really want to punch you in the face right now,” is John’s harsh reply.

Sherlock frowns, silently asking for an explanation he can’t seem to deduce on his own.

John stands up and begins pacing around the small room, his hands in fists resting on his hips. “You practically died on me, do you know that?! You went into cardiac arrest in the ambulance, right under my eyes!” he fumes, his eyes now flashing with ire. “Do you have any idea how I felt?!”

The only thing Sherlock can do when he meets John’s eyes is shake his head and look down. He hears John take a deep breath, as if filling his lungs would help him get rid of the anger. The frenetic pacing has stopped. Sherlock looks up again when the mattress dips downwards, discovering that John is now sitting next to him.

“I lost you once, Sherlock, I thought I’d lost you, for two whole years, and then you came back,” John begins, taking Sherlock’s hand in his. “And now in these last seven days I almost bloody lost you twice, again.”

Sherlock stares at their joined hands, his own larger and cold for the lack of blood flow, and John’s one, smaller but warm as a summer day. They fit so well together, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, softly, barely audible.

The next second, John’s laying across his chest, his arms clumsily grasping his shoulders, his head nestled under his chin.

“Don’t you dare do that again, okay? Stop dying on me,” the doctor murmurs, the quick fluttering of his eyelashes tickling Sherlock’s chest. “I can’t stand to lose you again, I just can’t.”

His voice cracks slightly at the end, but it’s enough for Sherlock to pick it up and allow it go straight to his heart. Moments like this are rare between them, they prefer to let their affection for one another go unspoken through looks and gestures. But now John’s lying on top of his bare chest, opening up his heart, without barriers, and Sherlock can only think of how much he loves this amazing man and how much he wishes things were different between them. For a second, he imagines a life where the weight of John’s head on his chest is a sensation he’s grown accustomed to, and the smell of John’s unwashed hair is so familiar that he could recreate it in a lab.

He’s abruptly brought back to reality when a single drop of water pools on his collarbone, except it’s not water, it’s a tear. John is crying, John, his own John, is crying because he can’t bear the thought of living without him. Sherlock wraps an arm around his shoulders, rubbing gently, as he fights back tears too.

They remain like that, in silence, the only sound in the room their breaths. No more tears wet Sherlock’s chest, just the regular hot puff of breath leaving John’s nose.

After a while, it’s John who breaks the moment, pulling up and taking Sherlock’s hand in his again, as if nothing had happened.

“I’m moving back to Baker Street for a while,” John says.

Sherlock presses his lips together in an attempt to repress a grin – if there’s one thing he’s learned from John is that one should not smile when one is told supposedly bad news.

“No need to make that face, I know it’s no news,” John says, a tiny smirk appearing on his own lips.

Now that he’s given green light, Sherlock mirrors his friend’s expression. “What about Mary?”

“I need some time to think, and I couldn’t stay at home… Honestly, Sherlock, I can’t even look at her right now.”

“221B Baker Street is always open for you,” Sherlock says. “Though I admit having used your room for a fair share of experiments in these past months, so you might want to aerate it a bit before sleeping in it.”

John giggles, and Sherlock can’t wait to be discharged and finally go home with John like the good times.

**

Sherlock is fidgeting on his phone, repeatedly texting John how bored he is, when someone knocks at the door of his hospital room, completely taking him by surprise. He’s not expecting anyone.

“Yes?”

The door opens with a click and Mary is standing on the other side.

“Hey,” she greets, almost timidly.

“Hi Mary, John is not here I’m afraid.”

She shakes her head, glancing down at her shoes. “I was hoping so, he doesn’t want to see me anyway... I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can I come in?”

Sherlock isn’t sure John would approve of this, but he gestures for her to come in anyway. For some reason, he’s not angry at her, hasn’t been since the second he discovered she didn’t actually mean to kill him. Something about her made it very easy to forgive her, but he still couldn’t say what it is.

The only explanation he’s found is that he can understand her. She did what she did so that she could have her happy life with John. She did it for John. And now she misses him, as he can quickly deduce from her face. Her makeup is not even, the left eye has mascara while the right one doesn’t. It’s not smudged, it’s entirely missing, meaning she was thinking about something else while putting makeup on.

She’s in a house that reminds her of John, that smells of John, but John won’t even talk to her.

Sherlock understands her better than anyone could.

She sits down awkwardly on the chair next to his bed, holding her large red purse on her knees with both hands. “How are you?”

“My brain is rotting from boredom, but other than that I’m fine,” he replies.

“How long are they keeping you here?”

“A minimum of two weeks,” he says, unable to believe only three days have gone by and he still has at least eleven to go.

He’s still pretty much bed ridden, the only thing he can do is text John – without receiving reply, because he’s working – or stare outside the window. Lestrade has texted him a couple of cases that didn’t require his physical presence on the crime scene, but Sherlock solved them in under two minutes. A third case seemed much more intriguing, before Sherlock found out that Lestrade made it up completely just to keep him entertained. He appreciated it. Molly has called him a few times, describing her lab work to him in an attempt to distract him from the hospital room, but it only made him miss his experiments more. Yesterday, Mrs Hudson tried to sneak in his violin before a nurse pointed out it was against the rules, to have a patient play a musical instrument in the hospital.

The only highlights of his days are John’s visits in the evening and, well, the morphine he’s still given.

“What do you do the whole day?” Mary asks.

He sighs theatrically, looking up at the ceiling. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I lie here relying on morphine to sink me down into oblivion and make me forget how dreadfully long hours are.”

He hears her chuckle. “Drama queen indeed.”

He just can’t help smirking. Mary’s laughter never fails to amuse him.

 “I imagined you would be bored, so I thought I’d bring something to cheer you up,” she adds. And with that, she extracts a travel chess set from her purse, shaking it vigorously to tease him, letting him hear all the pieces rattling inside. “If you want to play with me, that is.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide at the sight of the small, bendable chess board, as he feels his mind come to life again. If he could actually move, he’d probably be grabbing her head and kissing her forehead right now.

Correction of previous statement – Mary, in general, as a person, never fails to amuse him. 

With the board lying on his lap, they play. Mary is a remarkable opponent, unlike John. The last time he played with John the game lasted three minutes, while playing with Mary is almost like playing with Mycroft, just ten times more fun.

When the first match is over, they play again. And then again. Then Mary starts saying that it’s getting late, and she should go home, she has things to do, but Sherlock guilts her into staying.

“May I remind you that you shot me? Playing with me is the least you can do.”

She laughs, and he laughs with her, in spite of the pain.

A nurse enters the room when it’s time to change his bandages, and finds them playing.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid only family is allowed to stay beyond visitation times… are you family?” she asks Mary.

Sherlock intervenes immediately, without thinking twice, and answers out of instinct: “Yes, she’s my sister.”

The nurse nods in acknowledgement, and Mary glances at him with a look that is between amusement and confusion. He just winks at her.

“Will you be back tomorrow?” he asks when he realises it really is time for her to go home.

He loves the grin that appears on her face. “I shot you. Playing with you is the least I can do.”

When John visits, later that evening, he asks Sherlock how his day was.

“Mary was here,” Sherlock replies carefully.

“What does she want?” John hisses, his jaw suddenly clenched with anger. “How dare she come here and bother you after—“

“We played chess.”

Sherlock can swear John’s expression has softened in a matter of milliseconds.

“Oh,” is all John can utter, completely taken by surprise. “So she didn’t come here to hurt you, or threaten you, or use you to get to me?”

“Nothing of sorts.”

John’s furrowed brows are a clue that something isn’t quite right.

“Does it bother you that she was here?” Sherlock asks in an attempt to understand his friend’s feelings.

John brushes a hand through his own hair. “Er, no… I suppose not. You can hang out with whoever you like,” he says, immediately realising how weird that sounded. “Just be careful… don’t trust her. She probably has an agenda.”

Sherlock nods to reassure John, but he can’t help thinking that he trusts Mary on some level. She saved his life after all.

Mary does come back the following day, this time carrying a Battleship set. She visits every day for at least three hours.

When he’s feeling better, the following week, Mary helps him take the short recommended walks around the hallways of the hospital.

“Many people think hospitals are germ free, but they’re not,” he says as they walk arm in arm. “I’m planning on writing a piece for my blog about the most common germs found in hospitals.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“I wrote a similar one a few of months ago. It enlists the 34 types of soil particles that can be found on the floor of a tube carriage after morning peak time. Have you read it?”

“No, I must have missed it… But wow, the 34 types of soil particles that can be found on the floor of a tube carriage after morning peak time?” she echoes him. “Tell me _all_ about it.”

He does, and she listens, occasionally glancing up and loving the way his eyes light up when he talks about topics he’s into, albeit objectively boring ones.

At the end of the two weeks, Sherlock still isn’t cleared to go, and much to his dismay, his hospitalisation period gets extended for another five days. Mary keeps visiting, every day, and he could never thank her enough for making his days tolerable.

It’s finally his penultimate day at the hospital, and they’re playing Monopoly on his lunch tray, when Mycroft comes in unannounced.

“Good afternoon, brother mine… Mrs Watson,” he greets politely.

 “Mycroft! What do I owe this frankly unpleasant surprise to?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft glances at Mary. “Mrs Watson, could I have a word with my brother, please?”

Mary quickly complies the unspoken request, leaving the room.

“So?” Sherlock prompts Mycroft, now that it’s just the two of them.

“So, I came here to see how my little brother is doing, after eighteen days of hospitalisation, and imagine my surprise when I found him having a playdate with his shooter.”

Sherlock’s breath gets caught in his throat, as he starts wondering how Mycroft can know of this, when no one knows, no one has to know, but maybe it was naïve of him to believe Mycroft wouldn’t learn the truth sooner or later.

“Stay out of this, it’s none of your business,” he replies calmly. He isn’t worried Mycroft might talk, though. If he had wanted to, he would have done so weeks ago.

“She almost killed my brother, that makes it my business.”

“She didn’t kill me, _obviously_ , and she didn’t--“

“Except she did, didn’t she?”

These last words leave Sherlock speechless and staring into his brother eyes, almost daring him to speak a truth that so far has been left unspoken.

“I have read your medical file,” Mycroft continues, maintaining eye contact. “It says your heart stopped beating at 20:29. They immediately started CPR, and continued for five minutes, before declaring you dead at 20:34. You came back on your own two minutes later, a miracle, one would say. Weren’t you told any of this?”

“Of course I was told,” Sherlock says, clenching his jaw but trying to keep calm at the same time. He was told the moment he woke up from the first surgery. He decided not to share it with anyone, not even with John, there was no reason to furtherly make him worry. But of course, _of course_ Mycroft would find out.

“Then why is she here? Now I would say this is about John Watson, but he has left her, hasn’t he? He moved back to Baker Street three weeks ago.”

“She is here because she needs my protection, she’s my friend, and-“

“Oh, that’s what this is,” Mycroft interrupts. “ _Sentiment_.”

He spits out the last word with despise, deeming it unworthy of his voice. A familiar ghost is lingering in his eyes now, one that Sherlock knows too well. Disappointment.

“She’s on our side. She needs protection,” Sherlock says, knowing that Mycroft understands no other explanation than practical ones. Everything that concerns sentiment is obscure to him. “Trust my judgement.”

“What other choice do I have anyway?” Mycroft says, resigned, glancing down for a moment. Then, he sighs. “I’ll leave you to your playdate, then.”

With that, he leaves, and Sherlock immediately hears Mary walking back in.

“So, where were we? If I remember correctly, I’d just bought--” Sherlock’s voice dies in his throat as his eyes meet her face. She’s pale, very much so, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Is it true?” she asks, her voice dangerously quivery.

It feels as if the whole world has crashed onto him as he understands what she’s referring to. She’s heard what Mycroft said.

“Mary, it doesn’t matter,” he states firmly and softly at the same time, afraid that a wrong word could make her leave.

“So it is true then? That I…” she stops and look down, unable to pronounce the missing words. “That I, actually… that I… killed you?”

He takes the deepest breath, his eyes fixed on hers. “Yes.”

And with that, she breaks down. “Oh God,” she chokes out before covering her mouth with her hand to muffle a sob that just escaped. He watches her tears stream slowly down her reddened cheeks, and he’s never felt so helpless in his life.

“Mary, I said it doesn’t matter,” he repeats, stretching an arm in her direction, silently asking her not to leave.

She shakes her head. “Yes, Sherlock, it does matter!” she sobs. “I can’t stay here.”

His heart beats faster in his chest as his eyes follow her around the small room, watching her as she gathers her stuff and approaches the door. He asks her to stay, over and over again, hearing his own voice going from a simple request to something resembling a plead. He can’t get up and go after her, harsh movements still hurt a lot. If she leaves, she’s gone, and it’s an idea he can’t seem to handle, for some reason.

“Mary please, stay,” he repeats one last time, his arm so stretched it hurts.

She turns around, her teary eyes and her wet cheeks break his heart. “Why?”

“Please.”

He sighs in relief when she takes his hand and finally sits back next to him, on the bed, the corner of the tray with the Monopoly board against her back.

“I calculated it, Sherlock, I swear,” she says, swallowing back a hiccup. “I calculated so that it wouldn’t damage any vital organ.”

“I know,” he whispers, squeezing her hand. “I know you didn’t want to kill me, and that’s all it matters.”

He grins when she squeezes back. “Plus, you know, I’ve been told I follow a reckless lifestyle… do feel free to take a bullet for me at any time, and then we’ll be even,” he adds.

Her cry suddenly turns into a laughter, and he can’t help laughing with her, and there it is, under his nose, the answer he was looking for. He forgave her because deep down she is the most similar person to himself he has ever met.  She has made poor choices, but Sherlock himself can’t say he is the wisest man alive, in spite of what John thinks. Clever, yes. Wise, not so much.

**

Sherlock opens one eye, and then the other, as he hears noises coming from the kitchen, which is highly unusual at this time of night. It must be past 1 am, both John and Mrs Hudson should be fast asleep.

He himself has been trying to fall asleep for a while now, miserably failing due to the unusually hot temperature, about 6 degrees above seasonal average, he estimated. Opening the bedroom door to aid ventilation didn’t help either.

After listening carefully for a few seconds, he comes to the conclusion that the steps are obviously John’s.

“John!” he calls loudly while still lying in bed, surrounded by darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside his window.

The steps approach his room, and John walks inside, one hand still on the door handle, the other one carrying his laptop.

“Sherlock, what?” he whispers.

“You’re awake.”

“Yes, you are too apparently.”

“I have frequent insomnia episodes, whilst your sleeping habits tend to be fairly regular,” Sherlock points out.

John shrugs. “Thoughts. And my room is really hot.”

Sherlock can’t see his face properly with the darkness, but he’s fairly sure John is smiling. He wonders what is making John smile at 1 am on a hot Tuesday night.

“What kind of thoughts?”

“Mary emailed me a couple of pictures from the scan she had today… the screen of my phone is rather small, so I took my laptop, and… well, have a look.”

Sherlock doesn’t even have the time to express his disinterest in said pictures, that John is already sitting on the bed, right next to him, opening his laptop. Accepting the fact that he is, in fact, going to look at ultrasound pictures, Sherlock sits up, scooting a bit closer to John.

They frown as they’re both invested from the bright screen light, and Sherlock notices that John is only wearing his underwear and a white cotton t-shirt. It does funny things to him, to be in bed with a John in a somewhat state of undress.

He himself is naked under the sheet, but John doesn’t seem to notice.

“Look,” John repeats, beaming as he opens the black and white picture on full screen.

“It’s a healthy foetus of… 15 weeks, I would say.”

“16… look at its tiny hands! Looks like it’s sucking its thumb!”

And while John rambles on about all the most insignificant details in the picture, Sherlock can only stare at his friend, at the love and joy pouring out of his eyes and his voice, as if he was having the chance to look for the first time at the most beautiful creature on the planet.

“It’s my child,” John whispers, mindlessly stroking the screen with a finger, just a veil of tears covering his eyes. “I’m going to be a father, Sherlock.”

It’s not a frequent occasion that the great detective is left speechless, but right now he is. Watching John being so overwhelmed at the sight of his unborn baby makes his heart melt just a bit.

“I hope he doesn’t inherit your poor deduction skills, though. No offence but Mary’s are preferable,” he says.

John’s eyes widen suddenly as he turns abruptly towards his flatmate. “Wha-what did you say?”

“I said I hope he doesn’t-“

“He, you said he…” John stutters, his astonished glance going back and forth from Sherlock to the screen. “How did you- the email doesn’t say anything, and-and you can’t see the genitals from this angulation, how- did-did Mary tell you that?”

“No,” Sherlock says, remarkably calm compared to John. “It’s just my instinct, but you know I’m rarely wrong. Mary and I have bet on that… she thinks it’s a girl, but trust me, it’s a boy.”

He wants to add that Mary told him she has no intentions of learning the baby’s sex until John makes up his mind about them, but eventually he doesn’t.

A light chuckle reaches his ears as John smiles warmly at him, the light of the screen reflecting on the sweat that covers his forehead.

“How is she?... Mary, I mean,” John asks with an affection in his voice he wasn’t expecting. He finds it really hard to remember he despises Mary, when Sherlock talks about her with such affection.

“She’s fine.”

“Good, that’s good.”

A moment of silence follows. John’s reticence in taking a final decision about his marriage is something Sherlock has a hard time understanding, so he does the only thing he’s proficient in. He deduces.

“You still have the wedding ring on. You could have got rid of it, but you still wear it, and on the correct finger, which means you still consider yourself married. Plus you haven’t read the contents on her memory stick yet, although you had plenty of occasions. The conclusion is you’re still in love with her.”

“Yes, well… Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand that either. Love is the most powerful motivator he knows, and it definitely was enough for him.

Another minute of silence passes. The screen switches off as the computer goes on stand-by mode, leaving the room in the darkness again. John leans his head back against the header, closing his eyes.

It’s nice, Sherlock thinks, to just be with John like this. He gazes at him, at the sweat covering his forehead, his ruffled hair, the line of his neck, his muscles hidden behind the white t-shirt.

Gorgeous.

“Your room is cooler, isn’t it?” John asks, his eyes still closed, a relaxed smile on his lips.

“It is. I calculated when to aerate it and when to pull the curtains so that it would maintain the perfect temperature.”

John hums. “Bastard… and I have to go back into my oven.”

“You can sleep here,” Sherlock blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Hm?”

It isn’t clear whether John has actually asked for a repetition of the offer or if he’s just tried to give Sherlock a chance to take it back. Even the detective knows that sleeping in the same bed would be crossing an invisible line.

Moved by the smell of John’s sweat and his own desire to learn what it is like to sleep in the same bed with his best friend, Sherlock opts for a repetition of his previous offer.

“You want to achieve sleep and you believe this room offers a more ideal condition to do so, whereas your own room doesn’t. Therefore it is only logical that you consider spending the night here.”

He expects John to laugh, or worse, to start mumbling nonsense about feeling uncomfortable.

Instead, John just nods. “You know what, maybe it’s just that it’s late, but I agree with you.”

Before leaving the room, he mutters something else about getting his phone with the alarm set, while Sherlock remains sitting there, completely still, pondering on the consequences of his proposition and on how it is going to differ from how he imagines it.

In his mind, they snuggle together, John’s warmth and softness encompassing all of him, making the rest of the world disappear completely, even the cases, even the experiments. It’s just the two of them, breathing each other’s breath.

A couple of minutes later, while Sherlock hasn’t moved a millimetre, John comes back and switches on the light on the nightstand to plug in his phone.

“Let’s hope Mrs Hudson doesn’t decide to come in, or we’ll never see the end of those rumours,” he adds, yawning.

Then, he lifts the sheet with the purpose of sneaking under it. What he doesn’t expect is for it to fly a bit more than intended, thus revealing Sherlock’s evident and utter lack of clothing.

John immediately jumps out of the bed as if it was on fire.

“Christ, Sherlock, are you _naked_?!” he utters incredulous.

Sherlock blinks twice, taken aback by the harsh reaction he just witnessed. “Yes.”

“Have you been naked the whole time?!”

“Yes. It’s hot. We’ve been through this. It’s the reason why you agreed on sleeping here.”

“Yes, well, no, I am definitely not going to sleep in the same bed with a naked bloke!”

“You’re a doctor, and a man yourself, this is hardly the first time you see an unclothed male body. I fail to see the problem.”

“No, everyone draws the line at something, and this is my point… you put pants on or I’m going back to my room.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing purposefully loudly. “Fine. I’ll wear pants.”

Without any modesty he stands up in all his naked glory, gathering the underwear he’d neatly folded on the chest of drawers, while John covers his eyes with his hand.

“All done,” Sherlock announces once his pants are securely on, as he sits on the edge of the bed, his back to John.

“Thank you. See, that doesn’t make much of a diff-“

Sherlock can clearly hear the exact moment in which John’s voice dies in his throat. He turns around to understand what happened, and he’s met with John’s shocked eyes and slightly ajar mouth.

“What?”

“What is, er… what are those?” John asks, his voice feeble and unperceptively shaky.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“On-on your back.”

At this point it is clear for Sherlock what John is referring to. He looks down, concerned, suddenly feeling ashamed and exposed, as if he’d just revealed a deep secret.

“Scars. Nothing unusual, you have one too I reckon. Good night. Please switch off the light.”

As he finishes speaking, he lays down on his side, facing away from John, making sure all of his body is covered and hidden beneath the thin white sheet, protected from his flatmate’s inquisitive, concerned gaze.

“Sher-Sherlock, how… what happened?” John asks softly, forcing himself to put aside the instinctive anger that surged inside him towards whoever did this to his best friend.

He can’t see them anymore with the sheet, but the image is still imprinted in his mind. Sherlock’s back, pure ivory, engraved with too many lines of cicatrised skin, some longer, some very tiny. He suspects he hasn’t even seen all of them.

“I’ve always had them. A case took the wrong turn, years ago, before we met. Good night. The light, please,” is the lie Sherlock confidently tells, the same he told Janine, to avoid a discussion he really doesn’t want to have.

He doesn’t want John to know what he’s been through in the two years he’s been away from London, they never talked about it before, and Sherlock has no intention of starting now. He doesn’t want John to know how lonely he was, how much he missed home, all the dangers he’s been through. He doesn’t want John to know that he was captured and tortured for two days, and that he’d probably still be there if Mycroft hadn’t reached him in time.

When the room falls into darkness again, and the dip of the mattress indicates another body is present, Sherlock is confident that his lie has been successful. He closes his eyes.

“Just for the record, I know you’re lying,” comes John’s flat voice after a minute. “I’ve seen your back before, and those scars weren’t there… but it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I respect that.”

A sense of gratefulness and just pure love settles into the detective’s stomach. Sweet, sweet John, so sweet that Sherlock thinks for a moment that sharing the truth with him wouldn’t be a such a terrible idea.

“Do you want to see them again?” he whispers, and John has to swallow back a chuckle. He doesn’t want to _see_ them, he’s seen them already, he wants to know how they got there, but he’s overcome by a surge of affection at the question, thinking that it’s the only one that Sherlock, the detective, the great observer, could possibly ask.

“If you’re sure it’s fine,” he replies softly, as Sherlock quickly rolls onto his stomach, pushing the sheet down to his waist to expose his back. Hands under the pillow, he waits for John to take a look and gather data, if he wants to.

John scoots a little closer as he lays on his side, his head propped up on his elbow. He doesn’t even turn on the light, he doesn’t need to, he just lets his gaze travel along Sherlock’s back, following the line of his spine, counting the scars he can spot without a real purpose. He makes some deductions of his own, given by years of expertise in the medical field. He can tell the scars have healed properly, and that their position and angulation implies they were not self-inflicted. Sherlock was victim of violence.

“It was the last destination during the two years I’ve been away… Serbia… I was captured and tortured for two days, until my brother rescued me,” Sherlock whispers as if he’d read John’s thoughts. John’s eyes travel upwards to meet his. The detective’s curly head is sunk in the pillow and partially hidden by his own hair, but his bright eyes sparkle in the dim light.

John’s heart wrenches for him. He reaches with his hand to brush some curls away from Sherlock’s forehead, smiling tenderly when the younger man closes his eyes in surrender.

Even consulting detectives have soft spots, and John remembers Sherlock’s one very well. He shifts even closer, until his arm comfortably reaches Sherlock’s head, and he starts combing his hair.

“What did you do during those two years?” John asks as his fingertips delicately massage Sherlock’s scalp. They never talked about it. John only knows the purpose was dismantling Moriarty’s network. The only time he concretely approached the subject, the only answer he received was ‘Dull’.

Sherlock opens his eyes again. “I travelled… Moriarty’s network was mainly a European problem, but some minor cells were hidden in Asia too,” he replies, his voice remarkably flat in spite of the situation.

“What was it like?”

Sherlock is tempted to lie, once again, but maintaining the impassable façade gets a lot harder in the night, with John’s fingers in his hair.

“Lonely,” he whispers.

John smiles fondly. “It was lonely for me too.”

Silence falls between them as they stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, letting the implications of their words sink down on them. Without each other, they’re lonely. It’s a fact, Sherlock thinks.

“Hey, do you want to see my scar?” John proposes after a few seconds. “It’s only fair.”

Sherlock’s eyes open wide as he nods. He’s always wanted to see that scar up close, but never had the occasion to, and never dared ask.

He mourns the loss of contact with John’s hand in his hair as the doctor props himself up on his left elbow, using the other hand to spread the collar of his t-shirt until it reveals the small scar on his shoulder.

Although it is only lit by the streetlight peeking in, it’s a sight that fascinates Sherlock more than he expected.

“You can touch it too,” John prompts. “I can’t feel a thing anyway.”

“Desensitised,” Sherlock murmurs, more to himself than for John to hear. “Fascinating.”

He rubs it delicately, tracing its contours, cataloguing its texture. Definitely fascinating.

“How is yours healing, by the way?” John asks once Sherlock removes his hand.

“Well, or so I was told,” Sherlock replies, laying on his back so that John can see, if he wants to.

John checks it out briefly. He hasn’t seen it since the last time he had to help Sherlock change his bandages.

“Yep, looks all right,” is all he says, much to Sherlock’s disappointment.

Next, John lays back down and checks the time on his phone, saying something about his alarm being in less than five hours. Both close their eyes. Sherlock falls asleep unusually quickly.

When John’s alarm goes off the next morning, he glances at his sleeping friend for a moment. He’d always assumed that Sherlock would be a fussy, loud sleeper, just like he was during the day. He imagined sheet hogging, snoring, talking, limbs ending up on the other side of the bed.

That night, John found out it was quite the opposite. Sherlock was silent, and still, and he made himself smaller, curling up in a foetal position with his knees pressed to his chest.

John smiles tenderly at the sight, resisting the urge to peck Sherlock’s cheek, too afraid to wake him up.

**

It’s the first thing Sherlock notices, the moment Mary steps into the lounge of 221B, that something is different. Her hair is styled properly, her clothes are a bit smarter than what is usual for her, the black eyeliner more marked.

“You have a date tonight,” he states from his chair.

“Hi to you too, Sherlock. How are you?” she asks.

“Bored.”

Mary grins. “Well, I’m here to fix that.”

It is a boring afternoon indeed. John is working and there are no cases in sight, not even a banal one. Thankfully he can count on Mary to entertain him in these moments, with a game or a walk or just with herself. They still hang out regularly, although weeks, months have gone by and she still hasn’t talked to John. She comes over, most of the time, and suddenly time speeds up and the dullness fades away.

She is his second best alternative to cases. The best is John, of course.

“You do have a date tonight, though,” Sherlock repeats as she takes a sit in front of him, on John’s chair. Her belly is getting more and more evident.

“It’s not a date, Sherlock. I’m having dinner with Janine.”

“Oh,” he says. He hasn’t seen Janine since that time she visited him at the hospital. “How is she doing?”

“She’s doing great actually… she’s very much enjoying her cottage with her new boyfriend.”

“I see… I’m glad she’s found someone,” Sherlock says. Although they weren’t in a real relationship, Janine wasn’t a bad girlfriend. She was always nice, though a bit clingy at times, but he learned a lot from the month he spent dating her. One thing above all, that he would actually consider a relationship, with the right person. Well, with John.

“Yes, an actual heterosexual man, can you believe it?” Mary jokes, winking at Sherlock and unexpectedly making him flinch, his face going pale in a matter of seconds.

“What did you say?”

Feeling they were approaching uncharted territory, Mary carefully weights her words, afraid to scare Sherlock away. “I mean… I know you’re not straight,” she says, softly, sounding as understanding as she possibly can.

Sherlock’s first instinct is to close up, as he always does when someone approaches the subject, which to a more thorough thinking doesn’t happen often and hasn’t happened in a long time. Talking about such a personal topic has never been easy for him, mostly due to the fact that he doesn’t know a lot about it himself.

“Correct,” he says anyway, since she was only looking for confirmation. He waits for the feeling on uneasiness to set in, and blinks when it doesn’t happen.

It’s fine. Talking to Mary about his sexuality is _fine_. It’s easy, even. Fascinating.

“I find myself more interested in men,” he adds, quickly realising it’s the first time he’s said that out loud. Once again, much to his surprise, there’s no embarrassment.  Sherlock has never come out – he believes that’s the term – to anyone before, so he doesn’t know which reaction to expect, but at the same time he isn’t too worried. This is Mary. She saved his life. She’s a friend.

He trusts her.

As a matter of fact, Mary smiles. “So do I! Boys can be jerks sometimes, but they’re really cute… I like their arms, you know, nice, strong arms… and the smell, if a man smells good he has twice the chances…”

Sherlock thanks her through his eyes without saying a word for living up to his expectations, and wonders if it’s always so easy and liberating to come out to people.

“Does John know?” he asks afterwards. If Mary had her suspicions, she might have discussed them with John, and John must not know. His friendship is too precious, and even Sherlock knows that unwanted feelings ruin relationships.

“I highly doubt it… John can be a bit thick when it comes to these things. Actually, now that I think about it, he once mentioned that you had a flirt with a woman… can’t remember her name…”

“Irene Adler?”

“Yes! That’s the name! So it is true then?”

“No. She’s just a friend,” Sherlock replies quickly, his mind immediately going back to the main topic. “Don’t tell John.”

Mary looks down, absently caressing her belly. “He’s not speaking to me.”

“I know, but one day he might, and… don’t tell him,” Sherlock repeats.

The second he finished the sentence and Mary looks up at him again, he realises he has said too much. To an average ear it would be no problem, but she’s clever, she can read between the lines.

Involuntarily, he has given away his deepest secret.

“Are you in love with him? With John?” she asks tentatively.

If revealing his sexuality was easy, this is something else entirely. This is his heart, where he is at his most vulnerable. And mostly, this is something that could upset Mary, although somewhere in his mind Sherlock knows she’ll be okay with it. Their love for John has always brought them together, never apart.

“Yes,” he whispers, his heart beating just a little bit faster.

Mary nods in acknowledgement. “I’ve always had my suspicions.”

Her voice is once again calm, and understanding.

“That’s why you shot me?” he asks, not even remotely serious, quite amused in fact. He smirks, his head tilted down but his eyes looking up. Even in moments like this, it feels incredibly normal to joke with Mary.

She grins. “Oh, bugger, you’ve caught me, Sherlock Holmes!” she says sarcastically.

He laughs, and she laughs with him. He wonders if it’s normal, to laugh about your friend shooting you and you being in love with her husband, or if it’s just their thing, to share the same sense of humour.

Maybe he’s just lucky, he thinks, to have found a friend who always laughs with him.

“For what it’s worth,” Mary adds, “if John and I divorce, I hope he ends up with you.”

It means more to him than he can say. “We’re the only ones who can handle him,” he says, feeling the edge of his lips curl up in a smile that mirrors hers.

“I definitely agree.”

Silence falls for a few seconds, until Mary gets up announcing she’s making tea.

As Sherlock follows her with his eyes into the kitchen, he can only think of what just happened. He has opened up to another person, he has showed her the most intimate, private part of his heart, one that so far had always remained a secret for the world.

Rationally, he knows it’s a huge risk, he can only imagine how Mycroft would react. On the other hand, though, it’s fine, so much that it feels odd. It’s fine to know that there’s another person sharing his secret, and it’s fine that this person is Mary. Ironically, he trusts her in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else, not even John. He briefly wonders if it’s weird to trust someone with your life but not with the secrets of your heart.

“One last thing… I just wanted to thank you, for the trust you put in me,” Mary says, as he looks up and finds her unexpectedly standing in front of him. “I imagine you don’t talk about this a lot, and-“

She’s cut off by his long arms suddenly wrapping around her waist, and his face resting on her growing belly.

“Never,” he corrects her, his voice barely a whisper. “I’ve never approached this subject before… with anyone. It is highly confidential information, and the only people who know about it are in this room.”

She joins her hands on his back. “It’s a privilege,” is all she says.

Sherlock closes his eyes, just for a moment, remembering all those times in which he found himself wishing that John had never met Mary, that John still lived in Baker Street. It’s a thought he regrets, now more than ever, because it would mean Sherlock wouldn’t have met Mary either, and it doesn’t sound much of an appealing scenario.

“The baby must be asleep,” Mary says after a minute. “If she were awake, she would be kicking your face.”

“Does _he_ kick a lot?

“Yes, _she_ does.”

Sherlock looks up, and they giggle together.

They finally part when the kettle clicks.

**

By the time Sherlock has solved the case, he has completely lost track of time. It’s dark outside. Everything is silent, just the occasional car.

He stands up from his chair, wondering exactly how long he’s been sitting there with his hands joined under his chin. Glancing at the time on his phone, the answer becomes evident – it’s almost 3 am. He’s been lost in his mind for more than six hours. He immediately texts Lestrade to let him know the case has been solved, although he doesn’t expect an answer until morning.

John has gone out some time ago, and from the keys lying on the kitchen table Sherlock deduces John has also come back home. The detective immediately feels the urge to tell his friend the solution of the case they’d been investigating earlier that day, and without thinking twice about it, he walks upstairs, his steps heavy and loud. He bursts John’s bedroom door open, only to find the doctor sound asleep with his head sunk in the pillow.

Odd, usually John is easily awoken, Sherlock thinks. He quickly glances around the darkened room, observing the way the clothes have been messily thrown around, and deduces that John must have exaggerated a bit with alcohol tonight. Now that he thinks about it, John had mentioned something about going for ‘a drink’ with Mike Stanford.

“John, I solved the case,” Sherlock announces.

The only reaction he gets from his friend is a muffled ‘mmhf’.

“John, I solved the case!” he repeats a little louder.

“Sod off,” John whispers at this point, without moving, still more asleep than awake.

“The murderer is the youngest sister,” Sherlock continues. “Do you remember the pills we’ve seen in her cabinet? She’s epileptic, which explains why she couldn’t-“

“Sherlock, go to sleep,” John says more firmly.

“Don’t you want to know the details?”

“Tomorrow. Sleep.”

Hearing complete silence, John starts to believe his words were effective, for a change. He’s already dozing off again when the duvet gets lifted and a wave of cold air hits him, before being replaced by a warm body.

He’s too tired to complain. “I meant your own bed,” is all he says.

“You didn’t specify.”

When John doesn’t reply, Sherlock grins and rolls on his side. He’s been waiting for a chance to share a bed with John again since the last time that happened. The fact that tonight it is John’s bed they’re sharing makes it even better. The duvet is heavy on his body and the smell of John is everywhere.

“John?” he calls.

“What now?” comes John’s sleepy reply.

“Cuddle me.”

“No. Sleep.”

It was worth a try, Sherlock thinks, pouting. He falls asleep in a matter of minutes.

It’s still night when he wakes up, his body surrounded by a nice kind of warmth that is much stronger on his side. As he opens his eyes, he understands why. He’s lying on his back, and John is pressed against his side, his arm loosely across Sherlock’s stomach, John’s leg bent over Sherlock’s, John’s head on the pillow, so close to the detective that he can feel John’s breath against his neck.

Sherlock’s heartbeat accelerates considerably, as he starts wondering what he’s supposed to do, whether he should wake up John, or get up himself. Or just lie there and enjoy the moment, and pretend it was done on purpose, not as the result of too much alcohol and a low temperature in the room.

“Mmh… Mary…” John mutters suddenly, tightening his wrap around Sherlock, whose eyes open wide at the words. There’s more, then, than alcohol and cold.

Sherlock tilts his head towards John, closing his eyes again. If it makes John happy, to have a body to hold and pretend it’s Mary, then Sherlock will be that body for tonight. He will never be with John that way, he’s accepted it. John belongs with Mary and their unborn child.

Whatever makes John happy, Sherlock will do.

The ringing of Sherlock’s phone startles them awake again some time later, and this time the morning light peeks through the window. He reaches for his phone to answer it, as John rolls away babbling something about his head bursting.

“It was Lestrade, about the case. He requested our presence in person as soon as possible,” Sherlock says after hanging up, glancing at John who is still rubbing his forehead.

“I might need a moment,” John says sitting up, his voice thick with sleep. “And sorry about… before. I didn’t mean to… you know… I didn’t realise…”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock promptly says, a bit surprised that John’s reaction hasn’t been more on the repulsed side. “It’s clear you had grown accustomed to having another person in your bed, and while unconscious and with a high level of alcohol in your blood you resumed your old habit. Obvious.”

John lets out a nervous giggle, clearing his throat. “How is that obvious?”

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling as if it was suddenly interesting. He’s still lying down, the duvet covering him up until his chin, his right arm the only part exposed to the chilly air of the room.

“You said her name,” he says..

John sighs, loudly, letting himself fall back on the bed. “Shit,” he whispers, covering his eyes with his hand.

With only a quick glance to his side Sherlock can deduce that John is in distress, or sad maybe, for sure a negative emotion, and every time Sherlock himself is upset, John never fails to offer comfort if he’s around. Sherlock decides he might just do the same.

He’s never tried before. This is the first attempt at providing John with comfort. It must be impeccable, otherwise John will reject any further attempt.

He’s a bit clumsy as he rolls on his side and rests a hand on John’s shoulder, keeping the rest of his body for himself, a sense of achievement growing inside of him when John doesn’t jerk away nor glares at him. 

Instead, John simply smiles.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“You should make up your mind, about Mary,” Sherlock says, his hand immobile on John’s shoulder, afraid that anything may happen if he moves even just a millimetre. This position has earned him a positive reinforcement, best to keep it.

John snickers dryly. “You know you hit rock bottom when Sherlock Holmes starts giving you relationship advice.”

The slightest flinch of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder makes John finally remove his hand from his eyes to glance at his friend, realising his words didn’t sound nice at all. Sherlock is just trying to help.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t very nice, was it,” John whispers. He rolls on his side, facing Sherlock, who immediately retreats his hand to himself. They’re both on their sides now, face to face, mirroring each other in their position. It reminds John of a much easier time in his life, when he was a child and would have his best friend sleeping over, and this was the perfect position for more intimate talk, usually concerning girls.

Thirty years later, John is again sharing his bed with his best friend and talking about girls, sort of. It warms his heart to watch Sherlock’s puzzled eyes and knowing Sherlock is completely new to all this.

“What do you suggest I do?” John asks softly.

Sherlock blinks. “John, there is no need for us to talk about this. You were right, it’s hardly my area of expertise.”

“You listen to my unlikely solutions to crimes on a daily basis, I can listen to your advice for once.”

A shy smile appears on Sherlock’s face. “I reckon you should decide whether or not you want to read the contents of the memory stick.”

“Have you read it?” John asks.

“Me? This isn’t about me.”

“It’s probably the first time I hear those words coming from your mouth,” John laughs. “Anyway, I asked because you forgave her. You’re her friend. I want to know, have you read it?”

“Well, no, obviously.”

“Why not?”

“It hardly matters who she used to be. She’s only Mary Watson to me anyway, so why waste substantial storage space in my mind palace for irrelevant information?”

Sherlock doesn’t know which part exactly, but something has changed in John’s eyes, a new awareness written all across his face.

“What?” Sherlock asks, still confused.

John shakes his head against the pillow. “Nothing… tell me about how you solved the case.”

“The case? Didn’t you requested my advice on your marriage?”

“It’s fine.”

As smart as Sherlock is, he’s finding it problematic to follow John’s logic behind this sudden change of topic. He’s aware he’s shown a steady improvement in understanding human emotions, but some smaller things still elude him.

“If our conversation has come to an end, I would suggest we get up. George’s waiting,” Sherlock says, rolling onto his back, ready to jump up.

“Greg,” John corrects him. He smiles, fondly this time, and Sherlock freezes on the spot when John scoots closer, considerably closer, until they almost recreate the position they spent the night in, only without any overlapping. This time it is John who rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, his knees grazing the detective’s outer thighs.

“You said you didn’t mind,” John says as he meets Sherlock’s startled gaze.

“I thought _you_ did.”

“If my getting married hasn’t stopped Mrs Hudson from talking, nothing will,” John jokes. He doesn’t know if it’s the headache, or the cold air of the room, or the typical late November fog that is visible from his window, but John feels extremely cosy, and he can’t deny Sherlock’s close presence is a contributing factor.

He lets himself enjoy it. It’s just Sherlock.

“Come on, tell me how you did it, how you solved the case. You were dying to last night,” John adds. “Greg can wait five more minutes.”

Sherlock does, explaining everything slowly and with abundance of details, purposefully postponing the moment they’ll have to get up, just because he’s comfortable and warm and John has willingly chosen to lie like this. It wasn’t an accident. John seems to actually like Sherlock’s proximity.

They do get up eventually. When Lestrade asks what took so long, John blames it all on his hangover.

That night Sherlock hopes John is going to invite him into his bed again, since he dislikes sleeping alone.

John doesn’t, and Sherlock deduces that, ultimately, it really was all about Mary. John isn’t happy here in Baker Street anymore, he needs to go back home, to Mary, and Sherlock is determined to do all in his power to make this happen.

**

“Hapax,” Sherlock reads out loud, then looks up at Mary. “Short for hapax legomenon. In linguistics, it indicates a word that is only used once in a corpus of texts.”

Mary nods, impressed. “Didn’t know you were an expert of linguistics. Anyway, my turn.”

She arranges the letters on the Scrabble board to form the word ‘dance’. Sherlock gives her a look that means ‘is this the best you can do?’. Her answer is a look that means ‘shut up, I picked rubbish letters’.

“Dance,” she reads. “Moving one’s body following a musical rhythm. As in ‘Sherlock owes me a dance’.”

Sherlock immediately frowns. “Excuse me?”

“I wanted to dance with you at the wedding, but you left. You owe me one.”

“Oh,” he says. “You wanted to dance with me?”

“Everyone wanted to dance with you… John, Mrs Hudson…”

Sherlock looks down. He never meant to disappoint anyone that day, he just couldn’t take it anymore, giving John away like that. He couldn’t stay and dance happily with his friends, pretending everything was fine when in fact he was in so much pain he could barely breathe.

Mary notices the mood change and stretches her arm towards him across the sofa. “Let’s dance now.”

“What, now? The game isn’t over.”

“We’ll finish it later. I’m winning anyway. Come on, up!”

He takes her hand and they get up together. She has a grin that covers her whole face, and he can’t help mirroring her, as usual.

“Let me pick a waltz,” he says.

“No, no waltz. Let’s get some beat. Give me a song.”

Sherlock blinks, watching as she takes her phone and looks at him expectantly, her fingers ready to type.

“You’re heavily pregnant and I don’t concern myself with modern music,” he objects.

“First, I can dance, I just need to be careful and not overdo. Second, I’m not up to date either but come on, you must know some songs! Some 80s classics? What did you listen to when you were a kid?”

Sherlock blinks again, retiring for a moment in his mind palace in search for memories he thought he deleted a long time ago.

“Or Mycroft,” Mary adds, and that gets Sherlock’s attention. “Kids tend to pick up older siblings’ musical taste. What did teenager Mycroft listen to?”

A door in Sherlock’s mind palace bursts open. A beat, some words. Gradually, full lyrics. Of multiple songs. He remembers winter afternoons spent dancing around the house on the melody coming from Mycroft’s bedroom, when they were kids, before they grew apart. It even happened, once or twice, that Mycroft invited Sherlock in and they danced together, momentarily forgetting their rivalry and being just a ten year old boy and his big brother having some fun together.

 “Oh, I know that smile!” Mary utters, and Sherlock realises his lips aren’t forming a straight line anymore. “Which song are we going to dance to?”

“I don’t know the title or the artist, but I do remember the lyrics, though I was sure I had deleted them.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t understand how I deleted major scientific facts but somehow managed to keep song lyrics.”

“That happens to all of us. Tell me the first couple of verses.”

“Yes but it’s been years, how is it even possible that—“

“Sherlock.”

He sighs, slightly embarrassed. “It started with… ‘you can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life’--“

“Say no more.”

“Do you know it?”

“Of course I do, it’s Dancing Queen, by Abba.”

Abba rings a bell to Sherlock, a flash in his mind of Mycroft’s room and his disc collection, where Abba was a recurring name. Sherlock wonders what happened to those discs. He just knows that they disappeared when Mycroft left for university, and soon it was Sherlock who lost interest in his brother’s life.

In a matter of seconds, the music coming from Mary’s phone fills the room. Sherlock remembers it vividly, so much he can’t believe he hasn’t heard this song in more than twenty-five years. He knows it perfectly, every instrument that plays, every word that is sung.  

He takes Mary’s hands and he finds himself dancing as if time hasn’t passed. He lets the beat take him back to a time where things were different and he could be happy only dancing to a song, without a care in the world. As Mary makes him spin, as they bump hips and sing some verses aloud in each other’s face, Sherlock wonders if that was really so far from what is happening right now.

“You’re an incredible dancer,” Mary says once the song is over.

Sherlock is a little out of breath, his hands are firm on his hips but a beam is lighting up his face. “It used to be Mycroft’s favourite song.”

Mary laughs imagining the scene. It’s hard to believe that Mycroft Holmes used to be a normal teenager. “I might sing it to him the next time I meet him.”

An idea suddenly sparks in Sherlock’s mind, Mary’s words reminding him of his most important task.

“Do you have plans for Christmas?” he asks.

She frowns at the change of topic. “No but it’s in two weeks, something might come up… why?”

“My parents invited Mycroft and me to join them for dinner. I’d love you to come.”

Mary looks down for a moment. “Will John be there too?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt he’ll want me there.”

“I think he will.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. And I’ll talk him round.” He winks.

She raises on her toes and hugs him. “Thank you.”

He hugs her back. Whatever makes John happy. And if that makes Mary happy too, then it’s one further reason to pursue it.

John comes back late that night from the medical conference he was attending in Dublin. As he steps into 221B, he bumps into Mrs Hudson, who brings her forefinger to her nose in a suggestion to keep quiet.

Puzzled, John climbs the stairs wondering what is going on, and his heart melts with tenderness at the sight that appears in front of his eyes. Sherlock and Mary are sound asleep on the sofa, his head on her shoulder and her head on his, the telly on, the whole room smelling of Indian takeaway. 

John turns off the TV and drapes a blanket over them, smiling to himself. Softly, he kisses both of their foreheads, Sherlock first, then Mary, before walking upstairs to his room.

Sherlock heard the noise, and immediately recognised John’s steps. He pretended to be asleep when John kissed his forehead, his lips soft and lovely. He heard that John kissed Mary too.

Sherlock has learnt in that moment that there would be no need to talk John round.

 **

“John, there’s something… I should say, I’ve meant to say always and I never have… Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”

I love you. You changed my life. I am lost without you. You were the best friend I could possibly ask for. Your friendship has made me a better man. I’ll think of you every day until the day I die. You are my whole world. I love you.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

What was the point of confessing his feelings like that, Sherlock tells himself. John is happy now. He’s with Mary, and they’re having a baby. Both Mary and the baby will keep him in trouble, though in different ways. Once Sherlock has died, Mycroft will tell John the standard story  – that Sherlock is thriving somewhere, doing his thing under a false identity, and that he’s doing fine, but that John can never contact him again. John will believe it, and he’ll be happy with his family.

And at least Sherlock has had the chance to hear John laugh one last time.

They don’t hug. This time, it’s Sherlock’s choice. He doesn’t know whether it’s the drugs he took earlier, or just bare emotions, but as he hugged Mary, he felt a lump forming in his throat. If he hugs John, it’s over. Sherlock would cry like a baby, and he doesn’t want John to remember him like that.

A handshake is better, safer.

He cries later, on the plane, glancing out of the window at the pieces of his heart he’s left behind.


	5. TST + TLD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts at the very end of The Abominable Bride and covers the first two episodes of series 4. Series 4 definitely wasn't my favourite, but I didn't hate it either, so just so you know it's still all canon.   
> Whom to expect: pretty much everyone actually. Sherlock, John, Molly, Mary (both real and mind palace), some minor Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft. And of course little Rosie!  
> What to expect: h/c and angst, mainly. In particular what happens in the last minutes of TST, John's letter, what happens immediately after the hug in TLD, and John trying to make it up to Sherlock for hitting him. But there's also Sherlock babysitting Rosie, twice, so not everything is sad and angsty.  
> Enjoy :)

**4\. TST + TLD**

 

Sherlock’s going to jump in the car at the airport when Mary taps his back. As he turns around, she immediately wraps her arms around him.

He smiles. It’s not a sad hug this time, it’s a happy one. He’s here to stay. The lump in his throat is caused by completely different emotions. Oh, what a beautiful morning.

“By the way, Sherlock, it’s confirmed that it’s a girl, you owe me twenty quids,” Mary whispers to his ear.

He laughs.

“Now go hug him,” she adds, taking a step back, nodding at John. “ _Properly_.”

John is standing there, behind Mary, his arms hanging at his sides, his lips crooked up in a little smile. He looks around and Sherlock expects him to go for a bro hug, the one with no actual body contact and a pat on the back, like the one they shared at the wedding, but no. John envelops him in a tight embrace, relieved that, once again, Sherlock is back into his life.

“You utter cock,” John whispers, a barely audible quiver in his voice that makes Sherlock’s eyes wet up.

“I know,” Sherlock says, blinking back his tears before they part.

**  

Sherlock is there when the baby is born. He takes the bag with Mary’s supplies from the boot, he lets her squeeze his hand so hard that it actually hurts, all of this while John is kneeled on the road in front of the open car door, between Mary’s spread legs, trying to deliver his own daughter although he was never really trained nor prepared for this.

Mary alternates between wailing and screaming at John how much she hates him, while John remains calm and reminds her to breathe and push. Sherlock observes as the baby’s head, and then the shoulders, come out of her vagina. He’d never witnessed childbirth before, let alone from this angulation, and he finds it rather disgusting, albeit fascinating.

When the baby is out completely, John promptly grabs a towel from the bag and cleans the baby’s nose and mouth, until a loud cry fills the air.  John laughs, steaming off all the tension he’s been building, letting himself be swept away by the pure joy of the moment. Tears are spilling from Mary’s eyes, but it’s not just pain anymore. She unbuttons the top buttons of her dress, and holds her crying baby close to the bare skin of her chest.

Sherlock stands there, on the side of the road, and watches the couple as they share their first kiss as parents, sweet and full of love, before kissing their daughter’s head, cooing adoring words.

“Let’s get to the hospital,” John says a couple of minutes later, his eyes too glistening with tears. Mary nods, still holding the baby close to her chest for warmth, wrapping a blanket around the both of them.

Sherlock takes his seat again, next to Mary, without saying a word. She speaks to the baby, kisses her, touches her tiny hands and feet, occasionally glancing at John, who glances back through the rear-view mirror as he drives. The whole car is a mess, but neither of them seems to notice or care.

Sherlock studies the tiny human being in Mary’s arms. Approximately 50 cm of length. No hair, or too light to see in the dark. Eye colour unknown. Mary’s lips.

Sherlock stops himself there, wondering how it is possible to see a grown woman’s lips in a minutes-old baby. He knows it is something people say to new parents, that their infant child looks like them although it’s obvious that babies all look alike during the first weeks, but he swears he can see something of Mary in this new born baby. Without realising it, Sherlock strokes with a finger the baby’s arm, as to make sure she actually exists and he’s actually seen her come into the world, and is somehow amazed that his fingertip is basically as big as the palm of her hand.

“Nothing to say?” Mary asks, softly, her eyes sparkling with joy and love.

Sherlock irrationally feels as if he’s been caught red-handed. “It’s hardly the first baby born in the world,” he says, right before pulling his phone out and opening Twitter again.

He keeps tweeting all the way to the hospital, even as he waits with Mary at the A&E while John parks the car.

“Is he the father?” a young nurse asks Mary, a question that finally makes Sherlock look up from his phone.

“No, he’s… he’s my brother, my husband is parking the car, he should be here at any moment,” Mary replies, looking up at Sherlock from the gurney where she’s lying. She takes his hand, winking, and he smiles for the first time that evening at a simple definition that seems to be recurring between them.

“Well, then, congratulations, uncle,” the nurse says. Yes, uncle, Sherlock thinks. That’s all he’s going to be from now on.

Sherlock leaves with an excuse as soon as John walks in, right in time to cut the umbilical cord. As he walks out in the chilly air, Sherlock pulls out his phone once again and texts Mycroft.

_She is born. SH_

Five minutes later, Mycroft’s reply perfectly sums up Sherlock’s mood.

_Congratulations?_

**

John never asks Sherlock to babysit, until one day he does.

“Mary and I really need a day for ourselves… a Turkish bath, some massages, you know…” John starts, awkwardly standing in the middle of the living room in Baker Street.

“Sex,” Sherlock adds.

John ignores him. “Anyway, we need you to watch Rosie, this Saturday, please? Everyone else is busy. We wouldn’t ask you if you weren’t the only one available.”

Sherlock frowns at those words. Babysitting children, even his own goddaughter, is far from being his favourite hobby, he finds it tedious in fact, but it upsets him anyway that he isn’t John’s first choice.

“Come on,” John says, reading his mind. “You hate babysitting, and plus you can barely take care of yourself.”

“As a human being I am genetically wired to care for younger individuals of my own specie. It’s called self-preservation,” Sherlock retorts, lighting his blowtorch and heading back to the kitchen, a scene that makes John giggle sarcastically.

“Will you do it?” John screams to be heard over the blowtorch.

“Yes!” is the loud reply.

John and Mary arrive at Baker Street at 9 am on Saturday with Rosie and all the things she needs. They spent two days trying to convince Sherlock to come to their place, rather than carrying everything to Baker Street, but Sherlock refused. Eventually they gave up.

“Everything you need is in the bag, nappies, milk, toys,” Mary explains. “If she cries, she probably needs food, or a change, or attentions.”

Sherlock blinks, his eyes fixed on Rosie, in John’s arms. After realising he knew absolutely nothing on how to concretely take care of a baby, Sherlock spent the last couple of days thoroughly researching everything he thought he was supposed to know.

“For everything, Sherlock, _everything_ you need, please call us,” John says, sitting Rosie down on her Bumbo seat carefully positioned on John’s old chair.

“We’ll be back at 6 and we would love to find both of you alive,” Mary jokes. Both parents kiss their daughter goodbye, and as soon as he hears the door closing, Sherlock realises he’s alone. All the other time he’s been in the same place as Rosie, someone else was there too. Often John and Mary would fall asleep, but they were there anyway, reducing Sherlock’s actual tasks to a mere ‘company keeping’.

Now it’s just the two of them. He sits down on his chair and stares at Rosie, who’s calmly sucking on her dummy.

“It’s you and me today, my dear Watson,” he says, more to himself than to the baby.

Not knowing what to do exactly, he just goes along in his day as if he was by himself, figuring Rosie would entertain herself if provided with toys.

Not even twenty minutes later, a sharp cry interrupts his latest experiment, thus proving he was in fact wrong. Fascinating and alarming at the same time. He immediately reaches the living room, his mind recalling Mary’s words about the causes of Rosie’s cry as he tries to keep calm himself. The baby is wailing desperately, agitating her arms as to grasp for something, her dummy lying on the floor. Sherlock takes a deep breath and goes for a scientific approach, based on the hours of theoretical research in the past days. The lack of faecal odour in the air surrounding Rosie makes him deduce that she does not require a change of nappy, which leaves him with either need for food or attentions.

“Okay, Rosie, are you hungry?” he asks. Although he’s sure she hasn’t actually understood the question, the sound of his voice seems to have calmed her down a bit, an indication that favours the need for attention hypothesis.

Carefully, he picks her up. He’s never really held her before, maybe a couple of times, but just for a few seconds, then someone else would intervene. She weights in his arms more than he expected.

“I am giving you attentions, Rosie, now stop crying,” he mumbles awkwardly, bouncing up and down on his knees. He’s so amazed at how quickly she stops crying with this simple movement that he beams, proud of himself.

“Good job, Watson,” he whisper, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. She smells good. He knows it’s part of nature’s way of making babies more appealing, together with disproportionately big eyes, but she actually smells good. And now that she’s stopped crying, he even finds her irresistibly cute. It’s a sentiment he doesn’t recognise. A surge of love, he would say, that almost forces him to keep smiling at her and kiss her cheek. She laughs. He’s never heard her laugh before. He thinks it’s the most adorable sound he’s ever heard.

When he tries to sit her down again, her face distorts in a way that threatens an immediate cry. He picks her up before she can start, accepting that he’ll probably need to carry her around all day.

He doesn’t mind at all, not even when she grabs his hair and pull, for fun, or when later she starts smelling of faeces.

New fact: Sherlock likes carrying around this tiny human.

He plays with her, sitting on the carpet, his back against his chair, Rosie on his lap. He sits her down on his knees while he googles ‘how to make a baby laugh’. He blows raspberries on her tummy when he changes her nappy with the Youtube tutorial opened on his phone, and he mentally notes down that tickly touches make her laugh more than funny faces.

Even when she falls asleep after he’s fed her, he still doesn’t leave her alone. He lays her down in the reclining seat her parents left and keeps it on his legs.

Sherlock takes Rosie out for a walk when she wakes up and she’s a bit grumpy. He wears John’s carrier and talks to her as they walk, deducing people as if she could understand him.

“Your listening skills are remarkable,” he tells her at some point.

When John and Mary arrive at Baker Street, that evening, they laugh at the sight of Sherlock hunched over his microscope with Rosie sitting on his lap and his legs bouncing up and down to keep her entertained.

“You don’t actually have to carry her everywhere,” John points out.

“She cries if I leave her alone,” Sherlock replies without looking up.

“At this age she needs to learn how to be alone too, if you always pick her up she’ll never learn to calm herself down,” Mary adds.

Sherlock doesn’t address it, he just thinks he couldn’t be bothered to let her cry, omitting even to himself the fact that he loved carrying her around the whole day.

“You can go have dinner,” Sherlock says instead. “We’ll be fine for a couple more hours, won’t we, Rosie?”

John and Mary exchange startled looks.

“Are you sure?” Mary asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies.

“Yes but I mean, are you _sure_?”

Finally, Sherlock looks up. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

He spends the following couple of hours holding Rosie as he talks to her about the most interesting cases he’s solved, while she slowly falls asleep in his arms, sucking on her dummy, her hands grabbing the buttons of his shirt.

He watches her sleep as he soothingly rubs her back. How unusual that his attention is held by a tiny human doing nothing but sleeping.

“We had a good time today,” he whispers, kissing the top of her head where her blond hair are growing. She looks more and more like Mary every day.

John and Mary arrive punctually after dinner, and this time there are no more excuses. John picks Rosie up from Sherlock’s arms, careful not to wake her, and Sherlock watches them disappear down the stairs.

“Sherlock has been spoiling you today, hasn’t he?” he hears John whisper.

Sherlock hopes he gets to do this again.

**

He can’t cry. He can’t breathe.

Mary’s dead. Deceased. Departed. Mary Watson ceased to exist, to save his life.

John has just lost his wife. Rosie has lost her mother. And all of this is Sherlock’s fault. He staggers backwards, between his brother’s and Lestrade’s shocked looks, and finds his way out of the Aquarium.

Mary is dead, and John blames him. Rightly so, since this is his fault.

Sherlock has killed Mary, has failed to protect her.  

Outside the Aquarium, everything is normal. The London Eye is spinning, as usual. Tourists from all over the world are crowding the Queen’s Walk and taking selfie with the House of Parliament in the background. It’s a normal evening in London, but Mary has just died.

She bled out right under his eyes, while her husband tried to save her life.

Sherlock’s heart is racing, beating against his ribcage as if it was trying to escape. Mary’s dead, and John, oh, John, Sherlock can only imagine how much pain John is in right now. Sherlock tried to reach for him, to hold him and be held by him, but John stopped him and hissed all of his hate.

Well-deserved hate.

Sherlock is leaning against the railing over the Thames when a large hand is laid on his shoulder. Mycroft’s hand, obviously. Sherlock turns around to face his brother, seeking in his eyes a form of understanding, perhaps Mycroft will hold him. Sherlock knows he doesn’t deserve it, because he killed Mary and he should be thinking of John now, but he can’t help taking a step forward and hoping his brother will welcome him in his arms for a minute, just like when they were children.

Mycroft doesn’t. He takes two steps back, sighing.

“People die, Sherlock,” he whispers, his face impassable. “That’s what humans do. We all die, at some point, there’s no reason to be shocked. I warned you so many times that caring is not an advantage…”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, his fists clenching at his side. How does Mycroft, intelligent, brilliant Mycroft, not _understand_? He knew Mary was Sherlock’s friend. He knew how much Sherlock cared about her. He witnessed John’s furious reaction.

How does Mycroft fail to understand this, Sherlock wonders, over and over again, trying to block out his brother’s insensitive words.

“Besides,” Mycroft continues, “she was a… dangerous subject. She—“

He can’t finish the sentence that Sherlock’s fist hits him right on the nose. Without apologising, Sherlock walks away. No one talks about Mary Watson that way, not on his watch.

How does Mycroft not understand?

In the following hours, and days, Sherlock suppresses his own pain to think of John. John that has just lost his wife, and John that won’t talk to him. Sherlock needs to get John to talk, he needs to help John. Sherlock calls, and calls, and calls. No answer.

Mary has died and John won’t talk to him.

Sherlock receives only one texts from John, the day of Mary’s funeral.

_You’re not welcome today._

He’s never felt so helpless in his life. He sits in his chair at 221B, in silence, shocked when Mrs Hudson walks upstairs while she was supposed to be on her way to the funeral.

“How are you, Sherlock?” she asks softly.

“You should be paying your last respects to Mary,” he replies, his hands joined under his chin.

Mrs Hudson walks towards him and snakes her arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer until he rests his head on her hip.

“Oh Sherlock,” she whispers, rubbing his arm. “Death belongs to those who remain.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, thanking her mentally first, and then aloud.

Lestrade texts him that evening.

_Hey mate, didn’t see you today… how are you holding up?_

Sherlock’s fingers type the reply almost automatically.

_I’m fine. Stay with John._

The recurring dreams start that same night. Every night Sherlock is faster, more clever, and Mary doesn’t get shot. Or she does, but she survives, and then they laugh about it afterwards. In dozens of different ways, every night Sherlock saves her.

He books an appointment with Ella, John’s former therapist, because he needs to figure out what to do with John, for John. John who is suffering, alone, and won’t talk to Sherlock. However, Ella doesn’t understand this, she thinks Mary’s death is the problem, but John is the problem. John is in much more pain than Sherlock. John doesn’t want to talk to Sherlock, but Sherlock needs him. Sherlock needs his forgiveness, for killing his wife. He quits therapy after that first session.

After watching Mary’s DVD, he realises Mary wants Sherlock to help John too, and the least he can do is follow her instructions.

Sherlock takes a taxi to John’s house, one last chance to spare himself the troubles of hell, one last chance to see John and talk to him. He only finds Molly instead, and Rosie, beautiful little Rosie who will never really get to know her amazing mother because of Sherlock. Molly blames him too, he can read it in her face, and if Molly blames him then there’s no doubt. Sherlock killed Mary.

He’s leaving the Watsons’ house when Molly steps out once again.

“Look Sherlock, if… if you need to talk, I’m here,” she says.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replies. “You have to stay with John. He needs you more than I do.”

The only contact with John he manages to establish is a letter, three sentences scrabbled on a white sheet, that Sherlock reads in the taxi.

_You vowed to protect her. Since it should have been you in her place, you are now dead to me. Any further attempts at contacting me will cost you a restraining order._

Sherlock folds the letter and keeps it in his coat, as he asks the taxi to stop at the cemetery where Mary is buried.

He has no flowers, nothing, he even feels a little stupid because Mary isn’t there. The remains of her body are, but the actual Mary doesn’t exist anymore.

Still, he finds himself kneeling down in front of her grave, grazing at the golden letters engraved in the stone.

“Just so you know, I didn’t mean that,” he whispers, a lump in his throat making his voice quivery. “I always mean what I say because that’s the point of speaking, but that time I didn’t mean it… when I said you should have taken a bullet for me so that we could be even… You didn’t have to, we were friends anyway.”

He looks up at the sky. The clouds are thin and a ray of sun cuts the chilly autumn air. He stands up.

“In case… in case you aren’t dead, in case this was all a plan, feel free to let me know, I’ll keep your secret,” he says, glancing all around him. “I won’t overreact like John did that time.”

A single tear rolls down his cheek as he hopes to see her walk out from behind one of the trees, a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. “You should see your face right now!” she would say, and he would laugh with her.

But the cemetery is silent, Sherlock is the only one there.

He walks away, his mind focusing again on John. He knows what he needs to do.

He calls Wiggins, the game is on.

Hours later, when an uncountable quantity of drugs is flowing in his system, he finally sees Mary, sitting on the sofa.

“What are you doing?” she says with a smirk. “Come on, wear the hat and go solve a case.”

He sits down next to her, resting his head on her lap, and she gently strokes his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It should have been me.”

Wiggins finds Sherlock on the sofa, curled up on himself, his own hand in his hair, murmuring apologies to the air.

**

John starts crying, his shoulders hunched over, his face covered by his own hand. Such displays of human emotion used to make Sherlock uncomfortable, so many years ago, but not anymore.

Slowly, Sherlock gets up from his chair, ignoring the twinge in his stomach as he moves, and approaches his friend with tentative steps

“It’s okay,” Sherlock whispers, his hands shaking because of his poor health state or perhaps because of sentiment, as he envelops John in a hug. One hand on John’s nape and the other on John’s shoulder, he feels the quiver of his body as he cries. Sherlock rests his cheek against John’s head, wishing he could pull him even closer. He doesn’t dare, for fear that John would run away.

“It’s not okay,” is John’s muffled reply.

“No, but it is what it is.”

A statement that logically means nothing, Sherlock thinks, yet it seems to perfectly depict their situation. The only thing they can do to feel better, they’re doing it. Be together. Sherlock strokes John’s upper arm, slowly, up and down, inhaling the smell his head emanates. He hasn’t held John in such a long time. If he thinks about it, Sherlock can figure that he has never really held John, it was always John doing the holding. He should have done this much sooner, in happier situations.

Sherlock’s heart is torn apart a bit more every time John sobs in his arms. Sherlock moves his hesitant hand upwards, from John’s nape to John’s hair, because that’s what works best in soothing himself. However, John pulls away abruptly before Sherlock has the chance to complete the action.

“Why are you doing this anyway?” John asks, his voice throaty and low from crying.

Sherlock has never seen him like this, with his face crimson and obviously hot, his cheeks streaked with tears, his eyes wet and puffy. He takes one step forward, instinctively trying to reach John and pull him back into his embrace, but John stops him.

“I asked why!” he cries, as loud as his voice manages.

Sherlock blinks, unable to understand the question. “I don’t understand what you want to know,” he says calmly.

“I hit you, Sherlock!” John yells, visibly furious with himself. “I hit you so hard you were hospitalised! You were down already, harmless, and I kept… for God’s sake, Sherlock, I _kicked_ you!... And now you…”

His voice trails off in the end until it abandons him completely, and his body is again shaken by sighs and hiccups. You’re so good to me, he wanted to say before finding himself completely unable to.

Sherlock fights his instinct to reach for John once more, and just lowers his head, glancing at his feet. “You were upset. You needed to blow off some steam. It’s okay.”

John’s eyes snap open as he hears those words. “No Sherlock, don’t you dare say that.”

“It is the truth. Plus I was… completely out of my mind,” the detective continues, his eyes studying his own shoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the room. The next words that come out of his mouth are barely a whisper, a part of him wishing John wouldn’t hear them. “I deserved it.”

The sobs are over, John’s tears are silent now as he takes one big step towards Sherlock. “Look at me,” he orders, and Sherlock does, meeting again John’s green, red-rimmed eyes.

“It doesn’t matter the state you were in, Sherlock,” John says, trying to keep his voice even and drying some tears with the back of his hand. “I hurt you, physically hurt you, what I did was inexcusable and unacceptable.”

“It’s okay.“

“Christ Sherlock, no, it’s not okay!” John yells, wishing it sounded firm and confident but this time his voice quivers all over again. He cups Sherlock’s face with both his hands, letting new tears flow freely down his reddened cheeks. “I love you, and people who love should never hurt you… not like that, never like that…”

Sherlock’s heart has skipped a beat. _I love you._

John loves him?

“You’re the best friend anyone could ask for,” John continues, sniffling, his thumbs stroking Sherlock’s cheekbones. “You’re smart… and brave… and you have such a big heart… and I love you, and I’m so lucky to have you, so lucky…”

He pulls down Sherlock’s face to press a kiss on his forehead, then one on both cheeks, and another one on his forehead, his lips lingering there for two whole seconds this time, as if he wanted all of his love to find his way into Sherlock’s mind. And Sherlock feels all of it, warming his heart.

“I’m sorry… please forgive me,” John whispers at last, closing his eyes, Sherlock’s forehead resting against his own.

A tear streams down Sherlock’s cheek too, from his wounded eye, and he nods unperceptively. As if there could ever be an universe in which he does not forgive John Watson, in which he doesn’t provide John Watson with what he needs. Today, John desperately needs forgiveness, first from his dead wife, now from his best friend.

“I forgive you,” Sherlock murmurs. Then, he hugs John again, wrapping his arms around his waist. This time it’s Sherlock who’s hunched over John, resting his chin on his shoulder, while John laces his arms around the detective’s neck, still weeping.

It is what it is, and if they’re together, how bad could it be?

The only thing Sherlock wonders, in the back of his mind, is why John would say I love you if it’s not the truth, which it isn’t. He cares about Sherlock as a friend, he doesn’t _love_ him.

But as John voices a feeble, broken “Thank you” to his ear, Sherlock forgets every thought that might have clouded his mind, to focus on John and John only. He tightens his grip around John until no more sobs shake his body, and his breath has gone back to normal. Even then, Sherlock keeps holding John for as long as he’s allowed to, until it’s John who takes a step back.

“You know what we need?” John ask. Sherlock is relieved to see that although John’s face still shows the signs of crying, a tiny smile has appeared on it.

“What?”

“Cake. It’s your birthday. Go change your shirt,” John says, patting Sherlock’s arm and glancing at the shirt he’s wearing.

The detective follows John’s gaze to a considerably large wet spot on his own left shoulder. Ironical that John’s tears have left a mark above his heart, he thinks.

“Yes, and you should…” Sherlock starts, his finger drawing a circle in front of his own face, “freshen up a bit.”

John giggles, softly, through his nose, but it’s enough to make Sherlock smile.

“I will. I’ll text Molly too, is that okay?” John asks.

The last birthday Sherlock celebrated, with cake and presents, it was when he turned eighteen, because his parents insisted. After that he categorically refused to organise or take part in any kind of celebration.

Today, however, it’s fine. Molly can come too. He hasn’t seen her in a while.

“Yes, why not.”

Sherlock walks to his bedroom, and John to the bathroom.

**

Sherlock watches some telly with Molly after the cake, he sitting in his chair, she in John’s. They’re silent, the only sound in the room is the ones from the television.

When the clock signs 10 pm, Molly stands up, stretching her arms. “My shift is over,” she says, immediately realising how that sounded. “Not that hanging out with you is a job, you know, but…”

“You have to work in the morning. It’s okay,” Sherlock finishes for her, and watches her gather her things.

“John should be here any moment now,” she says, putting her coat on.

Sherlock blinks in surprise. John told him his next ‘shift’ would be the following day, from 6 to 10. “John? Wasn’t Mrs Hudson supposed to spend the night?”

Molly shrugs, rolling her scarf around her neck. “He texted me saying he changed his mind.”

The sound of the door opening and closing, followed by a series of confident steps, makes Molly smile and Sherlock’s heartbeat accelerate for some reason.

“Oh, he’s here,” Molly says, grabbing her purse.

Before actually seeing John appearing in the living room, all Sherlock could do was wondering why the change of mind, what brought him here for the night when Mrs Hudson would have been a much more obvious choice. However, the moment Sherlock’s gaze lands on John, all he manages to focus on is Rosie, sound asleep on her dad’s shoulder, her golden curls now long enough to cover part of her forehead.

He hasn’t seen her in weeks, and yet she’s grown a lot. He can’t rationalise the fact that he’s apparently missed her so much.

“Rosie,” he whispers, watching as Molly places a kiss on the little girl’s head and waves goodbye to John as she leaves.

“Hi again,” John says, now directed to Sherlock, his voice low enough not to wake his daughter.

“Can I hold her?” Sherlock asks tentatively, completely ignoring the other man’s words.  He approaches John reaching for Rosie with an arm.

He doesn’t even try to hide his disappointment when John shakes his head slightly. “It’s a mess if you wake her up… you can hold her in her morning.”

Those last words suddenly remind Sherlock that John is in fact going to spend the night, and all his previous questions resurface in his mind.

“Why did you change your mind about coming here?” he asks.

John smiles fondly. “Let me lay her down, then we can talk.”

As John disappears upstairs carrying Rosie with one arm and her bag with the other, Sherlock waits, almost frozen on the spot, concerned about the implications of John’s words. They need to talk. Chances are it’s about what happened earlier that afternoon between them, the hugs and tears and words. John’s lips peppering his face with tender pecks.

Sherlock’s stomach warms up with love just reliving those memories.

John is back downstairs a few minutes later with the baby monitor. He takes his jacket off, places it on a kitchen chair, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

Sherlock follows him with his gaze. “You wanted to talk.”

“I do, yes.”

“About?”

John leans with a hand against the back of his old chair. “I’ve been an awful friend lately,” he begins, his teeth nervously playing with his lower lip.

“We’ve already discussed this earlier today,” Sherlock replies immediately. He doesn’t want John to further bash himself. What is done is done. It is what it is. Sherlock has forgiven him. It’s okay.

But John shakes his head. “It’s not that… not limited to that, anyway. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Sherlock frowns, and John clears his throat, ready to continue. “I was so focused on my own pain that I forgot about yours… and you would think that I, of all people, should remember what losing a friend feels like.”

John’s gaze in unreadable. Sherlock has caught the reference to his own faked death, but John’s general intention is still eluding him.

“I don’t understand,” he simply says.

“You see her too, don’t you? Mary… you see her, you talk to her… you did, today, when we left to go to the bakery… you-you said something, to her,” John explains carefully, taking a few steps towards his friend.

“I do, but what has this got to do with anything?”

“I knew how much she meant to you, and I left you grieving alone anyway.”

“She was your wife. It’s understandable,” Sherlock says, finally figuring where this conversation is going. One more thing that John is going to blame himself for, and that’s the last thing Sherlock wants.   

“She was your friend.”

Sherlock blinks, silently asking John for further elaboration. John closes the distance between them and takes Sherlock’s hands in his, looking at him as if Sherlock was the kindest human being on hearth. That’s not that far from the truth, John thinks.

“I saw you two together… the way you would always look at each other as if you were co-conspiring something… or the way you laughed, I swear, Sherlock, you’ve never laughed that much when Mary wasn’t there,” John says, and he laughs too, just a little, at the memory. “And do you remember that time I was out with Rosie and I caught you two dancing in my kitchen? To a pop song, Sherlock, I didn’t even know you were aware pop music existed.”

Sherlock remembers it too. It’s all right there, in a room in his mind palace, a room he’d carefully locked in the past weeks in order to focus completely on John.

“Just because you weren’t married to her doesn’t mean she wasn’t important to you,” John finishes, squeezing Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock feels as if he has just jumped in freezing cold water. Suddenly he remembers. He remembers all of it.

He remembers how much he loved playing stupid board games with her, dancing with her, talking to her, how much fun they would always have together. He remembers the smell of her perfume, and her smile, and her laugher, the way it never _ever_ failed to bring joy to his heart.

And it’s all gone. And he never really took his time to think about it, or to mourn her as she deserved, he was so busy thinking about John or Culverton Smith or the drugs that somehow he never fully realised it was all over.

Sherlock has lost his friend. He blinks.

It’s _over_. Forever.

“So that’s why I changed my mind, because I’ve been the most horrible friend lately, and I wanted to make it up to you… starting from here,” John says. “I know it gets worse in the night, so I’m here tonight if you need to mourn your friend. Not my wife, your friend.”

With that, John takes a sit on his old chair, leaving Sherlock some space. The detective stands there, frozen on the spot, unable to speak or move. He’s lost his friend. Mary is dead. It’s like a rope has been tied around his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe every second. He swallows, again and again, but it doesn’t get any better.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?”

It’s Mary’s voice speaking in his ear. He glances at his right, finding her standing right there.

“Don’t stand here, go get your hug,” she continues with a cheeky smile. Playfully pinching his butt, she winks at him, like she used to do all the time, and that’s the last he can bear. If she were here for real, that’s exactly what she would have said, and done, and he can’t believe she’s gone forever.

As his eyes fill with tears, he finally moves, and sits on the black sofa, desperately hoping that John remembers their old code, the one they used so many years ago. Sofa meant please join me.

It’s clear that John remembers it too when he immediately sits next to Sherlock, cradling him in his arms. And Sherlock cries, all the tears he hasn’t cried so far, he lets them all out, on John’s shoulder, his arms tucked against John’s chest. He weeps, unable to stop, his body shaken by sobs and sighs and he can’t remember the last time he cried like this, for Redbeard perhaps.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” John whispers to his ear, his hands drawing slow, soothing circles on Sherlock’s back, helping him grieve.

“I miss her,” is all Sherlock can say, because his throat hurts as if he had a knife through it.

“I know. I miss her too.”

At least John is here, Sherlock thinks. John is so warm, and he smells like baby powder, and one of his hands is combing Sherlock’s hair, softly, keeping his head firmly against his shoulder. Sherlock snuggles closer, wrapping his arms around him, wishing he could climb on John completely. John is here. They can heal together.

They remain like that for some time, could be a few minutes, could be an eternity, Sherlock doesn’t know. He just knows he’s calmed down, after a while, his heart rate has slowed down and his limbs are weak. The world has gone still in the night, Mrs Hudson has gone to bed. Nothing exists but himself and John, and their warm embrace, and John’s hand in his hair.

Sherlock has never felt this cared for before.

“Do you want some tea?” John asks at some point, a whisper in Sherlock’s ear that reminds him the comfort time is over and that they have to part. He wonders briefly if he can just pretend to be asleep, if John would keep hugging him if he believed Sherlock was asleep.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Sherlock replies instead, a cold chill running down his spine as the contact with John’s body is interrupted.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Sherlock miserably shakes his head. “I think I’ll go to sleep.”

He used to suffer from chronic insomnia when he was younger. Entire nights spent looking down his microscope, or playing the violin, or carrying out the most unlikely experiments. When he was on a case he never slept at all, for days even. Now he’s tired, incredibly so, every night. So many hours spent unconscious, time he could spend elsewhere, exercising his mind, that he instead spends in his warm bed. It doesn’t even bother him anymore. Perhaps there is a finite number of experiments one can focus on at night. Or perhaps there are more important things in his life now, that are worth losing sleep for.

John nods. “Okay,” he says fondly. “Call me when you’re ready, I’ve got something for you.”

It all unfolds in the next few minutes, when Sherlock takes his suit off and puts on his pyjama, wincing in pain with the movements but enjoying the sensation of the softer material caressing his skin. Then he calls John, who walks into Sherlock’s bedroom and instructs him to lay down. Sherlock is taken by surprise but he complies anyway, settling himself under the thick duvet and sighing in content for a moment, as he watches John retrieve something from his bag.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks, observing the small tube now in John’s hand.

“Ointment. I noticed you’re in pain, earlier today, so I bought this… it should help,” John replies, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Show me where it hurts,” he instructs carefully.

Sherlock pushes the duvet down to his hips, and touches an area on his upper abdomen, immediately noticing the way John bites his lip as he realises that’s the exact spot where he kicked Sherlock.

“Lift up you shirt,” John says softly, sounding way less medical than he planned.

Sherlock does, with trembling hands, and John is horrified at what he sees. Three purple bruises are marking Sherlock’s skin, one significantly bigger, the other two a little smaller. John thinks he might hurl. He felt the same when he discovered the scars on Sherlock’s back, but this time, it was he himself who put those there. It was him who hurt Sherlock like that.

He’ll never truly forgive himself.

He squirts some ointment on his fingers.

“Still my doctor?” Sherlock says.

“Still your doctor,” John replies, making Sherlock smile at the memories. John instructs Sherlock to further lift his shirt, until it’s rolled under his armpits. “It might be a bit cold,” he adds, before laying his hand on Sherlock’s bruised abdomen.

John massages softly, in circles, spreading the ointment on Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock’s skin is soft under his touch, mostly hairless except for a little dusting on his chest and below his navel, but John’s hand doesn’t travel that far. He finds himself wanting to, for the shortest second, before he harshly represses that thought. He remains focused on the hurt zone on his abdomen, making sure the ointment is spread evenly among the three bruises.

Sherlock closes his eyes, lulled by John’s rubs that seem to go on forever. It’s relaxing. It’s warm, the cold of the ointment is quickly balanced by the heat of the friction. So nice, so very nice. 

“Leave it a couple of minutes, let it absorb,” John whispers as he lifts his hand off Sherlock’s abdomen, leaving the detective with a strange sensation of cold and loneliness. Opening his eyes, Sherlock watches John head for the bathroom while desperately wanting him to continue, the slimy patch on his belly exposed to the chilly air of the night. Sherlock can’t help imagining what would feel like if he could touch John too, everywhere, to make him feel as good as John did right now.

“You’re a lucky bastard,” Mary whispers, suddenly lying next to him. “He’s good at that, isn’t he? You should ask him to sleep here.”

Sherlock both hates and loves the fact that the Mary his mind is making up is so similar to the real one.

When John is back, a minute later, his hands are washed, and Mary has disappeared. “If you need me I’ll be on my chair. Hopefully awake,” he says.

He’s about to leave the room when Sherlock calls him back before he can stop himself. “Stay.”

John takes a step back. “Hm?”

“Can you stay here?”

There’s no hesitation in his question, no fear of rejection, nothing, just a bare request that John is more than happy to accept.

“Of course,” John whispers.

He places the baby monitor on the nightstand before stripping down to his underwear and t-shirt, under Sherlock’s observant gaze. There’s no embarrassment, on either side, everything happens so automatically that one would think it is nothing but routine. The way John sneaks under the duvet, next to Sherlock, glancing at him and whispering a soft “come here”. The way Sherlock, after pulling his shirt down, shifts closer to John until they’re only inches apart, staring at each other for a second that feels like much longer, grey-blue eyes in dark green ones, two bare souls in a miserable moment of their lives. The way Sherlock’s head finds its perfect spot on John’s chest as he feels John’s arm pull him closer.

Sherlock closes his eyes and listens to John’s heartbeat in the silence of the room. London is a noisy, crowded city, but when Sherlock is in bed with John, everything else stops being relevant. There’s just John, his scent, his warmth, nothing else.

“John?” he calls softly.

“Yes?”

“You’re a good friend.”

John’s giggle vibrates in his chest against Sherlock’s ear. “I’m just trying to be a decent human being for a change.”

Sherlock catches the self-loathing hidden in John’s remark, but decides not to say anything more. He snuggles closer, until their bodies are fully pressed together. John thinks it would have helped him coping better, in the days after Mary’s death, if he’d had Sherlock next to him providing comfort.

Sherlock thinks he’s never felt so comfortable in his entire life.

Each with their own stream of thoughts, they fall asleep.

John is the only one to wake up at the sound of Rosie crying through the baby monitor, a few hours later. He attempts the mission of sneaking out of the bed without waking Sherlock, an impossible mission indeed, since the detective is wrapped around him like an octopus around its prey. Every time John tries to get away, Sherlock’s arms tighten around his waist. Eventually Rosie’s cry becomes more urgent, and John accept the fact that he doesn’t have time to be careful, he just has to go.

“Sherlock,” he whispers, tapping the detective’s shoulder. “Let me go, Rosie is up.”

Sherlock mumbles something, still half asleep while he finally rolls on his side, and John is free to reach his daughter.

The second time Rosie wakes up it’s early morning, the winter sky is still dark but the city is awake, and so is Sherlock. He jumps up immediately, pulling the duvet back to cover John up just as he’s waking up too.

“I’m going,” Sherlock says as he heads to the door.

“Okay,” a very sleepy John agrees, the pillow way too tempting to be left alone.

Sherlock’s heart is racing in his chest as he walks upstairs and finds Rosie sitting in the middle of the big bed, surrounded by pillows on every side to prevent her from falling. The one she’s emitting is not the kind of cry he remembered, not as messy and desperate, this is somehow quieter, more rational. It’s a big girl’s cry, he thinks with pride.

“Hi Rosie,” he says, beaming as he finally gets to pick her up. He holds her close and so tight that he’s almost afraid to be hurting her. “Do you remember me?”

By the way she looks at him and the way she’s stopped crying, he deduces she does. He kisses her cheek happily, eliciting a laughter from her when he tickles her with his stubble. He walks around the room holding her in his arms, soothingly whispering all the things that they are going to do that day. He’s not sure John will want to leave his daughter in Sherlock’s custody, but it’s definitely worth a try.

Sherlock missed her. He truly, deeply missed Rosie Watson, and all he wants is to spend some time with her.

When she’s gone back to sleep, he puts her down on the bed, inside the nestle of pillows, and lays down next to her, watching her sleep and brushing away some curls from her forehead. Her hair is so thin and soft that it feels like a feather to his hand.

Mary appears on the other side of the bed, her head propped up on her elbow.

“Will you take care of them for me?” she asks, stroking Rosie’s cheek with the back of her finger. “Make them happy?”

“I will,” Sherlock replies, his eyes tearing up all over again. “Are you leaving?” he asks then.

Once his words reach his ears, he realises how stupid they sound. Mary isn’t really here, she’s dead, this is a projection of his own mind. And yet he can’t deny how reassuring it feels to see her from time to time, to talk to her. This way, it’s a bit as if she’d never left.

“I can’t stay forever, you know that,” she whispers, and a tear rolls down Sherlock’s cheek to the tip of his nose.

“I know,” he chokes out, although he isn’t ready to let go of her completely.

She smiles fondly at him. “Just don’t you dare forget me, okay?” she asks, winking.

He closes his eyes, letting the memories of her flash before his eyes once again.

_I’ll talk him round._

_You can’t be my bridesmaid as well._

_I’m not John, I can tell when you’re fibbing._

_Wow, the 34 types of soil particles that can be found on the floor of a tube carriage after morning peak time? Tell me all about it._

_Bugger, you’ve caught me, Sherlock Holmes!_

_Oh, I know that smile!_

_He’s my brother._

_You bastard! You bastard! The mathematics of probability?!_

_Hey Sherlock, I so like you, have I ever said that?_

“I could never,” he whispers, knowing that it is nothing but the truth. 

When he opens his eyes again, Mary isn’t there anymore. But she hasn’t really gone anywhere, has she, he thinks.

Drying his tears with the back of his hand, he leans in towards Rosie and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“One day we’ll dance in the living room and I’ll tell you about your mother,” he whispers.

**

John agrees to let Sherlock babysit Rosie the whole day, since it’s not like Sherlock’s ever alone. First, Mrs Hudson stays with him in the morning, prepares him a light lunch and offers an uncountable number of cups of tea. She goes back downstairs to her chores when Molly arrives in the afternoon.

Sherlock and Molly play together with Rosie, sitting on the floor. Rosie seems to like Molly very much, Sherlock deduces with a tiny hint of jealousy, observing the way Molly makes her laugh way more than he can.

It’s a normal afternoon until Rosie decides it’s time to stand up on her feet. Sherlock doesn’t understand the importance of the moment until he sees Molly’s mouth hanging open.

“Oh my God!” Molly screams. When Rosie takes a first, clumsy step, before falling immediately on her bum, Molly claps her hands frenetically and pulls the little girl back into her arms, kissing her head and showering her with compliments.

“Had she never done that before?” Sherlock asks.

“No, never, not by herself,” Molly answer, excitement bubbling over in her voice. She kneels up taking Rosie’s hands and encouraging her to try again.

Sherlock can’t believe he witnessed such an important milestone of her life, and that he’s never felt so proud before. She’s walking, he rationally thinks, everyone walks, that’s a perfectly normal thing to do at her age.

Still, he’s the proudest man on earth.

They watch as Rosie gets more and more steady, and one step turns into two, and then three, with Molly’s aid. Mrs Hudson has rushed upstairs with her phone, ready to take a video and immortalise the moment. The three of them sit in circle, Sherlock and Molly on the floor, Mrs Hudson on the sofa, and take turns in helping Rosie stumble her way from one to another. Rosie tries to do it all by herself a couple of times, without anyone holding her hands, but she falls on her bum after one step. Even then, everyone keeps cheering and encouraging her, knowing that literally every step is important.

When it’s Sherlock’s turn, he picks her up and lifts her over his head.

“Your skills are remarkable, Rosie. I’m proud of you,” he says, pressing his lips on her cheeks, and missing the fond glance Molly and Mrs Hudson exchanged.

Half an hour later, Lestrade arrives with a case. He sits down on the sofa next to Mrs Hudson, joining the circle as he explains the case to Sherlock. It takes a while for Lestrade to understand the monumentality of what is going on.

“Wow, this is… this is the first time she does that, isn’t it?” the inspector asks as reality sinks down on him.

“John should be here soon, we want to surprise him,” Molly says. “Don’t we, Rosie? We want daddy to see how good you are.”

“I do take the case though,” Sherlock adds. He hasn’t been on a regular case in a long time. This sounds like a 7, but he’s so starved he’s excited anyway. And maybe John will come too. And then maybe they’ll go home together, like they used to.

For some reason, everyone laughs at his statement.

When they hear John’s steps climb the stairs, everyone stands up, exchanging excited looks, and Sherlock lifts Rosie up. His heart races in anticipation. He quickly figures half of the enthusiasm comes from the fact that this moment is shared, and the whole room seems filled with joy.

“What’s going on?” John asks the moment he enters the living room, only to find his friends lined up like a wall in front of him.

“You won’t believe this mate,” Greg says. Mrs Hudson has a grin as large as her face, and Molly gestures for Sherlock to put Rosie down.

“Come on, Rosie,” Sherlock whispers as he follows Molly’s order. “Let’s go say hi to daddy.”

Everyone sighs in awe and laughs at the sight of John’s eyes going wide, his mouth opening in amazement as he watches his daughter take uncertain steps towards him with Sherlock holding her tiny hands above her head. He kneels down to pick Rosie up immediately the moment she reaches him, spinning her around.

Sherlock smiles with a joy he doubted he would ever feel again. Somewhere in his heart, Mary is smiling too. It’s what she wanted, him to make John and Rosie happy.

Everything will be all right.


	6. TFP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little premise: like many of you I didn't particularly like TFP, there were too many things that didn't make sense. So no, this chapter doesn't actually deal with TFP, you're not going to read about how John and Sherlock jumped out of a window to escape an explosion and didn't even sprain an ankle (?), or how the chain around John's foot magically dissolved the moment he was thrown a rope (??), or how Eurus managed to build a prison-like room in the garden of an old mansion and drag Sherlock's unconscious body into it (after chaining John to the bottom of the well) (???).  
> This chapter deals with what happens after the episode, and since the goal was to keep the story canon-compliant, all those weird events happened. I don't know how, but they happened.  
> Anyway, this is also the last chapter. I would like to thank you everyone for reading this story, and I hope you enjoyed it. I might write a short sequel but I haven't started yet, so for now this is the end.  
> Whom to expect: pretty much everyone.  
> What to expect: Sherlock's apologies to Molly, some Sherlock-Mycroft bonding time, some Mycroft-Rosie bonding time, and of course Sherlock and John finally getting together.  
> Enjoy :)

**6\. TFP**

 

He walks into the morgue with uncertain steps and a veil of shame covering his eyes.

Of all the utterly unbelievable things that happened yesterday, meeting his sister, playing her evil game, almost killing himself to save John and his brother, finding out the truth about Victor, and eventually rescuing Eurus from herself, of all these things, hurting Molly Hooper was probably the worst part.

Sherlock stands there, watching her dissect the latest corpse, a Caucasian, middle-aged man. She’s so focused it takes a while for her to notice that she isn’t alone in the room anymore.

“Hey,” she greets, her gloved hands still deep inside the corpse’s bowels.

“Hi Molly,” Sherlock says tentatively, taking one more step towards her. “How are you?”

“I’m okay, thanks.”

That’s all she says, her somewhat harsh tone giving away her true feelings beneath the apparent calm.

“Listen, Molly, I came here because I owe you an apology, for what happened yesterday,” he says.

She nods, quickly, her glance traveling from Sherlock to the open abdomen before her. “It’s okay. Greg texted me last night, he told me all about the… well, your sister and everything. We’re fine. We don’t need to talk about it.”

Sherlock can sense she wants him to leave, but he won’t. He hurt her. He humiliated her. She’s always been a great friend, loyal and supportive, and he played with her feelings. He has to apologise, he won’t leave without letting her know the exact reasons why he acted like that.

He won’t be able to live with himself if Molly thinks he was just being mean.

“I thought your life was in danger,” he explains. “Making you say those words was the only way to save you…. Although it turns out you were perfectly safe… but I didn’t know that.”

Molly takes her gloves off, placing it momentarily on the table next to the corpse. “I said we’re fine, you can leave. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I would have never done that if I hadn’t believed I had a valid reason,” Sherlock continues, ignoring her words. She needs to understand he wouldn’t hurt her like that without a good reason, he’s not that man anymore.

Molly lays her hands on the slab, her shoulders hunched over, her head hanging low. “Please Sherlock, just leave.”

“Molly, I swear it was never my intention to humiliate you, it was—“

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t you understand?!” she hisses, her head snapping up. “It’s not just that!”

He blinks, unable to understand, his heart wrenching in his chest at the sight of tears veiling her eyes.

“Okay, you made me say I love you, you had to, to save my life, fine!” She’s yelling now, her cheeks flushed red. “But what _I_ made _you_ say, Sherlock, that’s even worse, that’s why I never want to talk about this again, that’s why I don’t want to see you right now!”

She turns to the wall to avoid meeting his gaze, covering her eyes with an hand. He stands there, immobile, blinking.

“I acted like an idiot, I made you say it first… for what? It’s not even true,” she continues, her voice trembling sensibly. “You had to make me say it, what’s my excuse? I humiliated myself… God, if I think about it, it’s so embarrassing…”

“Molly…” he whispers, taking a step closer, wishing he could lay a hand on her shoulder. The creak of his shoes on the smooth floor gives his movements away.

“Please Sherlock, go away… can you do this for me? I need some time,” she whispers.

Even if she can’t see him, he lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m leaving,” he says.

He stops halfway to the door, remembering there was one more thing he wanted to tell her, something that is now more relevant than ever.

“One more thing,” he says. He hears her sigh.

“What now?!”

He smiles to himself. It’s something he realised while on the phone with her, while declaring his love to her. He said I love you twice. The first time, he had to utter those words to convince her to do the same. The second time, however, it hit him out of the blue that what he was saying was nothing but the truth.

He remembered when John had said that to him, after the Culverton Smith accident, Sherlock remembered thinking that John’s words weren’t true. John didn’t _love_ him. But the moment he said those same words to Molly, nothing about it felt wrong or forced.

John loves Sherlock. And Sherlock loves John, and Molly, in two different ways, but neither is any less love than the other.

“I may not love you the way you want me to, Molly Hooper, but that doesn’t mean my words weren’t true… you’re a precious friend, you’ve always stood by my side all these years… when I said I love you, I wasn’t lying.”

He waits for a second, listening to the silence in the room and trying to catch a breath, a word, anything coming from her, but nothing happens. She’s still facing the other way, her arms crossed to her chest. He gives up, accepting that he has to go.

Sherlock is one step away from the morgue door when she calls him back.

“Sherlock, wait.”

He finally sees her face as he turns around, her eyes are glistening with tears but a little smile is lighting up her face.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She walks hesitantly in his direction, and he does the same. They meet halfway, falling into each other’s embrace, holding each other for a minute, his chin resting on top of her head.

“I know you’re busy, but I was thinking we could get coffee, maybe later,” he says when they part. They never really spend time together outside of this morgue, but he thinks it would be a good time to start.

She beams. “I’d love to get coffee with you. Let me finish this autopsy and then I can take a break.”

He nods, his eyes following her back to the slab where the corpse is still waiting.

**

Sherlock still wonders, from time to time, what’s the value that Mary’s death has conferred to his life, how to spend that currency.

The answer comes that evening, when Greg texts him.

_I checked on your brother. He’s doing great actually, busy working as usual._

That is when Sherlock knows that something isn’t quite right. No one could ever be okay after all the things that happened yesterday, no one, not even Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock has to do something.

Mary didn’t die for him to leave his brother alone like this. Greg was nice to check on him as Sherlock requested, but that wasn’t Greg’s job. It’s Sherlock who needs to be there for Mycroft.

The detective takes a cab to his brother’s mansion that same night, at suppertime, when he is sure Mycroft has terminated his working day. Sherlock has been there many times before, but this time feels different. When he turns the keys in the lock, he’s not ready for the sense of misery that crashes against him like a wave.

Empty. The house is empty, and dark, and silent, except for the sound of a crackling fire coming from the living room. Mycroft is there, sitting in his chair, his legs stretched towards the fireplace. Staring at the flames, he smokes his cigarette, his other hand busy propping up his head.

Loneliness is all Sherlock feels staring at the backlit silhouette of his brother, while finally finding the answer to a question he’s been asking himself for years now.

How does Mycroft not understand what he’s missing, isolating himself from people? How does he not understand the beauty of having someone by your side? How does he not understand the importance of friendship to Sherlock?

How does Mycroft fail to grasp a concept as simple as the advantages of caring?

The answer is now evident in front of Sherlock’s concerned eyes.

Mycroft doesn’t understand because he doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know any of it. He truly is as lonely as he seems.

Yesterday night, after what happened with Eurus, Greg personally drove John and Sherlock home, to London, to the Watsons’ house since Baker Street is currently not viable. They talked in the car, about the events of the night first, and then about other cases they’ve solved together. They even laughed a couple of times, remembering the most bizarre ones.

Sherlock spent the night in John’s bed, holding John in his arms. The house does have a guest room, but neither of them wanted to sleep alone.

“Big spoon or little spoon?” John asked, switching off the light on the nightstand.

“It… obviously depends on what I’m going to eat,” Sherlock replied as if John had just asked the most stupid question. Why would anyone want to eat soup with a teaspoon, he wanted to ask next, but he was interrupted by John’s giggles.

“I almost drowned in a well tonight, you do the big one.”

Since Sherlock was clearly still unsure about what this was all about, John simply proceeded to lie down on his side, next to Sherlock, grabbing the detective’s hand and pulling it around his waist. The moment Sherlock’s body completely adhered to John’s, back to chest, Sherlock’s nose buried in John’s hair, the detective’s mouth formed the shape of an ‘o’ in surprise.

“It’s called spooning,” John whispered. “Big spoon and little spoon, do you get it now?” 

“Fascinating.”

The next morning, Mrs Hudson arrived with Rosie and the four of them had breakfast together, telling their landlady the events of the night, only interrupted by her frequent “oh dear”. Then, that afternoon, Sherlock had coffee with Molly and had a nice chat with her about bowels and dead tissues.

A day that could have been horrible, devastating even, had turned for Sherlock into a tolerable one, all of this while Mycroft, instead, had sat in his office working and had then come home to an empty house.

Sherlock almost feels bad for him.

“What do you want Sherlock?” Mycroft asks. Although he can’t see his little brother, he has recognised his steps.

“I came to see how you were doing,” Sherlock replies.

“I’m fine, thanks for your concern.”

It’s the answer he was expecting. He never dared hoping for a second that Mycroft would admit having troubles, it has never happened before. Sherlock himself doesn’t quite know how to proceed. With John it was easy, to get up and hold him, but Mycroft is uncharted territory.

“I also wanted to see if you needed company,” Sherlock adds tentatively.

Mycroft twists his cigarettes in the ashtray to put it out. “I don’t. I’d much rather be left alone, in fact.”

Sherlock catches the unspoken rejection - his attempts at improving Mycroft’s mood are far from welcome, but he won’t give up.

John has never given up on Sherlock. Sherlock used to push him away all the time, mistreat him even, but John stayed, day after day and week after week, slowly working his way into Sherlock’s soul with his friendship, his attentions, his kindness.

Molly has never given up on Sherlock either, and he can’t say he ever treated her well. He dismissed her, humiliated her, and she kept standing by his side, always reminding him that he could always count on her. Sherlock could never remember Lestrade’s name, for years, he used to insult the inspector’s lack of observation skills, and yet Greg stayed too. Mrs Hudson has prepared Sherlock’s tea every morning for the last seven years, she cleans his house and provides him with motherly affection, and Sherlock has never said thank you. But the tea is always there, hot and with just the right amount of milk, waiting for Sherlock to get up.

Sherlock has no excuse to give up on his brother.

“If there’s anything you need to discuss please call Anthea to make an appointment. I’ll be regularly in my office tomorrow,” Mycroft is saying when Sherlock walks closer, his hands sweating.

Sherlock kneels down on side of the chair where his brother is sitting, his knees against the wooden floor. It’s mildly uncomfortable but this is where his instinct has taken him.

Mycroft is staring at him with wide eyes and a grimace of annoyance. “What now?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He just leans over and wraps both his arms around his brother’s shoulders, making him immediately squirm away.

“What is this? What are you doing?!” Mycroft complains, trying to free himself from the long arms that are wrapped around him.

Sherlock tightens his grasp. “It’s a hug. I’m hugging you.”

“Yes, thank you for this brief vocabulary lesson, but _why_ are you hugging me?!”

“Because I care.”

“You can care while respecting my personal space at the same time.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything and Mycroft starts struggling again in a vain attempt to wiggle out of this unwanted embrace. “Sherlock, let me go,” he says, but Sherlock just smiles. He’s reminded of a happier time, when they were children. Five-year-old Sherlock would appear in Mycroft’s room and interrupt his studies jumping onto his lap. Mycroft would always try to push him away at first, but Sherlock was stubborn enough to win his space on his big brother’s lap every time.

“We used to do this all the time when we were younger,” Sherlock says, a bit amused at the sight of his upset brother.

“Yes, when you were five, now let go of me,” Mycroft repeats. However, his struggles are less strong now, just a steady pressure against Sherlock’s hands on where they’re joined on Mycroft’s left shoulder.

“No.”

At this point, Mycroft sighs in surrender, and Sherlock has to repress a giggle. It’s exactly the way it used to happen thirty plus years ago.

“Fine. Do as you please,” are Mycroft’s final words as he settle himself so that he’s as far away from Sherlock as possible, though still trapped in his arms.

A couple of minutes pass by, and Sherlock smiles when he feels the pressure of Mycroft’s body against his hands getting less sharp. Sherlock knows what is happening. Endorphins are taking over, the muscles are relaxing.

The hug has stopped feeling unwelcome, and is instead becoming a pleasant sensation. Sherlock remembers all of this from the first time John has hugged him. He remembers how it felt, weird and nice at the same time, getting nicer and unexpectedly less weird as the seconds went by.

An effective way to establish a contact, and now that this part is successfully concluded, he knows there is a next step to be taken.

The room is silent and dark with the only exception of the fireplace in front of them.

“You did your best,” Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft scoffs, immediately understanding what his brother is referring to. “Oh yes, my best. Hiding my sister in a high-security prison, lying to my family about it, then letting her meet a criminal mastermind, who also happens to be my little brother’s nemesis, thus giving her time to organise a sadistic experiment that resulted in five dead people and in which you and I could have died as well.”

Sherlock blinks, his heart wrenching at the guilt in Mycroft’s word and filling with a sense of achievement at the same time. This is it, this is the core of the problem, Sherlock thinks. This is why he came here. They’re getting there.

Love never fails, he thinks.

“You’re insulting me if you think this is my best, Sherlock,” Mycroft concludes.

The younger man takes a deep breath before speaking. “What I meant is you did what you thought was best. You couldn’t have foreseen the consequences, you acted on the data you had available at the time. You analysed pros and cons of every move, and opted for the one that could bring greater advantage with the minimum risk possible.”

Mycroft looks at him in disbelief. Never in his life had he heard his own thoughts pronounced aloud by another person.

“I would have done the same,” Sherlock adds.

Mycroft stares at the flames while his brain processes the newly acquired information, and suddenly Sherlock’s close proximity is far from unwanted.

“I called Mummy today,” Mycroft whispers. “I told her I had to talk to her, but I didn’t say what about. She’s coming with Dad tomorrow. I don’t know how I’m going to tell them what I’ve done.”

“I’ll be there,” Sherlock says in a soft, reassuring voice.

“You will?”

“Of course. In case you need backup.”

A moment of silence follows.

“Thank you Sherlock.”

A couple of minutes pass, the fire keeps crackling in the background. Soon enough Sherlock releases Mycroft from his embrace.

“I was wondering if you had a couple of hours free tonight,” Sherlock says, earning himself a puzzled glance.

“What for?”

“We could watch a film. A musical comedy,” Sherlock says, pulling out a DVD from the inside pocket of his coat.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You know I detest musical comedies.”

“You might quite like this one.”

The older man glances at the DVD his brother is holding. “Mamma mia!,” he reads aloud before glancing back at his brother as to ask for further explanation.

“The soundtrack is based on songs by Abba,” Sherlock says. The DVD was Mary’s Christmas gift last year.

Mycroft seems to think about it for a moment.

“Well, I don’t have anything scheduled for the next couple of hours,” he says eventually.

They watch the film in silence in Mycroft’s cinema room. Sherlock glances at his brother, from time to time, delighted at the way he moves his head and taps his foot on the floor on the notes of Dancing Queen.

A smile appears on both their faces.

Baby steps.

**

“PS: I know you two, and if I’m gone I know what you could become, because I know who you really are…”

As his breath gets caught is his throat, Sherlock glances at John, afraid for a second that Mary might more or less voluntarily reveal his secret, that she might end up letting John know that Sherlock is in love with him. Sherlock checks John’s face, looking for signs of confusion, or worse, of sudden awareness, but the doctor is probably too busy staring at his dead wife’s face and listening to her voice to actually pay attention to her words. It’s better this way. 

“…A junkie who solves crimes to get high, and the doctor who never came home from the war…”

John reaches for Sherlock with his hand, and Sherlock takes it immediately,  intertwining their fingers together and squeezing as he sits next to John on the sofa.

“… Will you listen to me, who you really are doesn’t matter…”

Sherlock is thankful that Mary’s speech seems to have taken a different turn than he dreaded. The last thing John needs right now is to learn about Sherlock’s secret feelings.

“It’s all about the legend, the stories, the adventures… there is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted, there is a final court of appeal for everyone… when life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope… when all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they’ve always been there and they always will, the best and wisest men I have ever known, my Baker Street boys, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

For a moment, Mary stares at her webcam in silence. Sherlock’s eyes are focused on John, observing the wrinkle on his forehead and the tears pooled above his lower eyelids. Sherlock squeezes his hand even tighter, showing him he’s there for him. As an answer, the edge of John’s lip crooks up in a thankful smile.

Then Mary starts speaking again.

“Okay, that was for the blog… I think it would look cool for a potential Info section, don’t you think? A tribute to me as well, in case I’m dead… and Sherlock, sorry about that first thing I said, I’ve realised too late how it sounded… I hope you appreciated the way I changed topic.”

She winks at this point, and Sherlock feels his own heart swell in his chest while an uncontrolled smile appears on his face. He misses her so much.

He has no idea how she concretely managed to record DVDs and have them sent out post-mortem, but he doesn’t really care. He’ll cherish both of them as his most precious belongings.

“Now, onto the things I actually wanted to say…” she says next.

John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, their hands firmly entwined together, as Mary tells John how much she loved him and how much he saved her and changed her and how happy she was to be Mary Watson. Then she talks to Rosie for a couple of minutes. “A message for your twelfth birthday, sweetheart,” she says, her words filled with love and her eyes with the sadness of a person who suspects she will never see her daughter grow up.

“Now you, Sherlock,” Mary says afterwards. “You’ve been a great friend and we’ve had so much fun together, so I’m going to give you another case… a mission, actually… Well, two. First, it’s now your job to keep Rosie safe and John in trouble, for me, will you do it?”

Sherlock finds himself nodding at the screen, and this time it’s John who squeezes his hand hard.

“Second,” Mary continues, leaning in towards the camera. The next sentence, she whispers it: “In case it wasn’t clear, you have to convince John to move back to Baker Street.”

She laughs, because she obviously knew John would be here to listen, and Sherlock laughs too, with her, because his brain is still wired that way.

“And for… you know, that other thing, Sherlock…” she continues, winking, “just go for it. Trust me. Go for it and it will be okay.”

Sherlock suddenly tastes something salty in his mouth, and he realises it’s his own tears spilling from his eyes. He rests his head on John’s as Mary pronounces her final goodbyes.

Then, the screen turns black, and John buries his head on Sherlock’s chest, enveloping him in a hug.

They remain like that, embraced together and breathing in each other’s scent, their hearts beating in unison, Sherlock’s hand cupping John’s nape and softly brushing the short hair there with his thumb.

“I was already thinking of moving back to Baker Street, you know,” John whispers when they part after a while, drying his tears with the back of his hand. “This is Mary’s flat… I don’t want to live here without her.”

Sherlock gets lost for a second in his puffy red-rimmed eyes, observing the residual wetness lingering on John’s eyelashes. “You really want to move back?”

“Yes… though I wasn’t sure you liked the idea.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock asks, genuinely wondering. John and himself and Rosie living all together under the same roof sounds like an actual dream. Like the good old times, but even better.

“Well, because… We’d need to baby proof everything… you’d need to actually tidy up after your experiments… be more careful in general… with the, er… the drugs… and things like that,” John explains.

Sherlock almost laughs. There was a time in which his experiments were everything, but now if he had to choose between them and Rosie living with him on a full time basis, he would pick Rosie in a heartbeat, without ever second guessing his decision. He’s been staying in the guest room at John’s place since the explosion and it’s a dynamic he loves, having meals together, playing together, reading a book sitting in comfortable silence in the same room as John. As for the drugs, Sherlock will manage, for Rosie.

He and John might not be romantically involved, probably will never be, sooner or later  John might even meet another woman, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like family to Sherlock.

“I am willing to bring some changes into my life in order to have you and Rosie live there again,” he states eventually.

John smiles fondly. “All right then. Once Baker Street is good to go, we’re moving back.”

Sherlock nods. Thankfully the actual explosive placed inside the bomb was not nearly as destructive as Mycroft had imagined. It wasn’t meant to harm them, merely to scare them. The explosion wasn’t even powerful enough to tear down the walls or the floor. With the workmen working full time as they are now, Sherlock has estimated it will take a couple more weeks until they can move in again.

In the meantime, he’s staying with John, which is far from being a bad solution after all.

John checks the watch on his wrist. “Time to pick up Rosie,” he says. She’s been staying with Mrs Hudson that afternoon, in her five-star suite in a luxury hotel in Central London – all generously paid by the British Government to make up for the inconvenience.

Sherlock finally takes off his coat while John grabs his keys and heads to the door.

“By the way, what was…” John says suddenly, his hand suspended in mid-air above the door knob, “what was Mary talking about, when she told you to go for it? Go for what? What was she referring to?”

Sherlock’s stomach twitches in his belly as he pronounces the only safe answer he can come up with in a matter of seconds. “I don’t know, actually. Probably something related to the other DVD, I reckon. Or maybe there’s a third one that was supposed to be delivered before this one.”

A wave of relief surges over Sherlock when John nods, seemingly convinced of the answer. There may come a time in which Sherlock decides to _go for it_ , to open up his heart to John and reveal him his deepest secret, but that time is not now. Not even soon, probably.

That night, once dinner is over and Rosie is asleep, they sit at the kitchen table in front of one another, each busy with their own computer. While Sherlock catches up on his tweets, deleting the fans’ ones in order to keep clients only, John watches Mary’s video again and again, his earphones securely in his ears. And at some point, the truth about her words to Sherlock sinks down on him. The beginning, _I know what you two can become_. The middle, _how it sounded_ , _the way I changed topic_. The first time John watched it, he missed the meaning behind those first words, too shocked for them to register in his brain. Now however, they stick like glue. Then the final part, _go for it_ , linked to what Mary had said in the first video. _The man we both love_.

To John there’s only one explanation that makes sense, only one way in which that introduction might have sounded. Ironically, it’s an explanation that he can’t even begin to process, because if it were true, it would challenge all his beliefs and the very foundation of his friendship with Sherlock.

John’s eyes travel beyond his screen to look at Sherlock, at the way the light from his laptop is almost reflected on his pale face.

The more John watches Mary’s video, the more he is convinced his theory is correct. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as he thinks back of the way Sherlock blatantly provided a generic answer when he was asked about the meaning of Mary’s words. Is this true, then, John wonders, and if it is, he doesn’t understand how he managed to miss it.

A part of him wants to shut up about it, pretend he never formulated any hypothesis on the fact, but the other part simply craves the truth. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands are sweaty and cold at the same time, and his mouth is dry as if he hadn’t just finished a cup of tea.

The second part wins. John needs to know if Sherlock is in love with him, and it’s an answer he needs right now.

“Sherlock?” he says, removing both his earphones.

The detective hums in acknowledgement, prompting him to go on without glancing away from Twitter.

“Can we talk?” John asks, continuously licking his lips without even realising it.

“We are talking.”

“Yes, no, I mean…” John stutters, an uncertainty that has Sherlock finally looking up. “Can I have your… er, full attention, please?”

The second Sherlock’s eyes meet John, he understands what this is about, and his heart sinks to his stomach. His hand trembles slightly as he closes his laptop, watching John do the same and waiting for the dreaded question.

“It’s about Mary’s video… about what she said to you,” John says, and Sherlock clenches his fists under the table for the tension building in his body as he forces himself to remain calm on the outside. He’s going to deny everything, and any unusual movement could give away the truth.

“What about it?” Sherlock asks, his voice flat and even, his nails digging so hard in his own palms that it hurts.

It takes two seconds before John speaks. “I’ve… I’ve just watched the video again, and there is something I want to ask you, but I need you to promise me you’ll be honest… can you do that? For me? Hm?”

This time Sherlock just nods, bracing himself for what is to come, well aware that if the situation isn’t handled correctly, his relationship with John could be ruined forever. No more Baker Street. No more Rosie. No more cases together.

Possibly no more John.

John fidgets with his hands on the table, his bad leg bouncing up and down, and he takes a deep breath.

“Do you… er, do you have…” John needs to breathe again before the words come out. “Do you have feelings, for me?... Besides, er, friendship?”

There. The bomb has been dropped. There’s no escape, Sherlock thinks, just stay still and wait for the flames to reach you.

He told himself he would lie and deny the evidence if needed, but John specifically asked for honesty. If Sherlock lies now, he can’t ever confess his love to John ever again, or John will understand Sherlock has lied to him, and will leave.

If Sherlock tells the truth, however, John is going to leave anyway, because John doesn’t see Sherlock that way. The chance that John requites Sherlock’s sentiment is very slim.

A decision has to be made eventually, and Sherlock, who has never confessed his love to anyone before because he’s never been in love before in the first place, decides to put his fate in the hands of someone who has.

That person is Mary. She was married to John. She has confessed her love to John. She was also Sherlock’s friend, and she told him she wanted him and John to be together if she were ever to be out of the picture. And then, in her video, she urged Sherlock to trust her and go for it. He wonders if it was all made on purpose, those sentences in her video, so that John would understand and initiate the discussion, because Mary knew Sherlock would have taken ages to do so himself.

Once again, Sherlock decides to trust Mary. She saved his life, twice. He has no reason not to trust her.

He glances down, in case Mary was wrong, because he does not want to see John’s disgust when he hears the final reply. “Yes I do,” Sherlock whispers eventually.

John swallows dry as his doubts are confirmed. Sherlock waits, without finding the courage to look at John, staring instead at his own hands still clenched in his lap, his blood pumping with such force through his veins that he’s afraid his heart is going to burst.

“Okay,” is the only thing John can say after a couple of second of deafening silence. “That’s, er… that’s fine.”

His voice was more high-pitched than usual, and Sherlock has obviously caught that. It’s not fine, he thinks. Mary was wrong. He’s ruined everything.

“So you are… er, gay, in fact?” John asks next, clearing his throat more frequently than necessary.

The lump in Sherlock’s throat is so tight that he can’t speak. He just nods, still unable to look up, remembering how different he felt when he came out to Mary. That instance was liberating. She was nice, and friendly, and they laughed and joked afterwards.

“Okay,” John says again. “That’s fine, it’s-it’s fine. It’s fine.”

There’s just shame now, and embarrassment, and things will be awkward, assumed John doesn’t leave immediately. Sherlock wishes he could go back five minutes, and deny John’s assumption, and everything would be fine. He has lived forty years without being in love, or in a real relationship, he could have gone without for the next forty as well.

Now it’s too late.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock chokes out, his shoulders hunching over a bit more every second. He knows he will have to look up at some point, see the disappointment and rejection in John’s eyes, but he isn’t ready yet.

“No, no… there’s nothing to be sorry about… it’s fine,” John repeats, wondering if he has repeated the word ‘fine’ too many times. “It’s okay… I just need some time.”

And he truly does, because this changes everything. He thinks of all the sweet words he told Sherlock, the hugs, the light kisses, the cuddles, even, the night spent in the same bed, nothing that a straight man normally does with another man, John knows that. Yet, when no one could see, he let himself engage in such behaviour with Sherlock because Sherlock didn’t care about cultural conventions. Sherlock was asexual, or not interested, married to his work, and John could see him as _just Sherlock_ , not as a man made of flesh and bones. If anything, Sherlock was straight, as proved by the flirt with Irene Adler. Which allowed John to consider himself straight as well. It was always _just Sherlock_ in his mind. What they did was nothing more than that, two close friends enjoying some non-sexual intimacy when hidden from the world.

But now that Sherlock is gay and very much interested, John doesn’t know what that means. His mental paradigm doesn’t work anymore. He wonders what the intimacy they’ve shared for years actually means. Has John lead Sherlock on? Has John subconsciously wanted to lead Sherlock on? The enjoyment coming from their shared physical space, was that really just platonic? Is there more? Has there ever been?

He remembers wondering about this once before. He remembers thinking that what he felt for Sherlock was stronger than his feelings for any other person, ever. But then Sherlock faked his death, and was away for two years, and John met Mary, which reconfirmed his heterosexuality.

Now everything is suddenly up for discussion again, and everything is a mess, and John definitely needs time.

“So you won’t be moving back to Baker Street?” comes Sherlock’s quivery question, bringing John back to reality.

“You don’t want me to move back anymore?” John asks, for the first time concretely realising how this all is going to impact their friendship.

“I do. Do you?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to move back?”

“Because you seem…” Repulsed, disgusted, Sherlock wants to say, but doesn’t. “Uncomfortable… you said you need time…”

Something snaps in John’s mind as he realises how badly he’s been handling this situation. Sherlock, his best friend who has probably zero experience with relationships, has just come out to him, and all John could do was to think about his own sexuality. Not an actual word of comfort. And he even said he needs time - John’s heart wrenches in his chest at the idea that Sherlock might have interpreted that as ‘I need time to accept you’.

The only thing John knows is that he would do everything to avoid losing his best friend. His own doubts will have to wait.

Sherlock deserves better than a couple of ‘okay’.

As John gets up from his chair to switch sides on the table, Sherlock replays the conversation over and over again in his head, thinking of all the moments in which he could have taken everything back and didn’t. Just because John is still moving back doesn’t mean things will ever be the same between them.

Idiot, Sherlock screams in his head, feeling nothing but despise for himself because he ruined the best thing of his life, his friendship with John. Mary was wrong, so wrong, she thought Sherlock might have had a chance with John, when this is probably the farthest scenario from the truth.

Sherlock is busy cataloguing all the things that will be different now that he hasn’t noticed that John is now sitting next to him, whispering all over again how this all is fine and trying to sound convincing in doing so. However, the second John rests his hand over Sherlock’s clenched ones, the detective is brought back to reality, and he finally finds the strength to meet John’s eyes.

He’s surprised when he doesn’t see any trace of disgust there.

“Okay?” John asks softly, taking Sherlock’s now relaxed hands in his own. “Nothing is going to change between us. We’re still friends… we’ll always be. Mh? Okay?”

John’s thumbs trace little circles on the back of Sherlock’s hands, making him believe for a moment that perhaps he hasn’t ruined everything after all.

“What about you needing time?” Sherlock asks tentatively, looking away once again. This time however his gaze falls on their joined hands. He follows John’s thumb across his knuckles, mesmerised by the tenderness and regularity of the touch.

“I don’t need time from you… I need time for me… to figure out a couple of things,” John simply replies, but it’s not nearly enough for Sherlock. The barest hint of hope has made its way into his heart. He blinks.

“About?” he says.

John wasn’t planning on digging this deeper inside of himself and of his problem, but he now believes that the least he can do is be honest with Sherlock just like Sherlock has been with him.

“About my own idiocy… we’ve been, er, quite intimate, with each other, for-for a while, and… well, apparently it was much easier to brush it off with a lame excuse rather than consider… er, consider that… that I should reconsider my… preferences,” John stutters.

Sherlock’s eyes grow wider and wider as those words register into his brain, his mouth hanging ajar with disbelief.

“I don’t think I understand correctly,” he says, because John’s earlier words suggested Sherlock might have a chance with him, and Sherlock simply cannot believe it.

John smiles, almost embarrassedly, the motion of his thumbs on Sherlock’s hands coming to an halt. “What I mean is… it turns out it’s not that easy to… to challenge your heterosexuality when you’ve been a straight man for more than forty years.”

Sherlock is sure his heart is still beating only for scientific reasons, because hearts beat, that’s what hearts do. But if he were to say whether his own heart is beating or not, he would need to assess it, because the revelation behind John’s words is too big to comprehend.

“So… in fact, you’re saying… that you are now actually… willing to… challenge your heterosexuality?” Sherlock asks, afraid of the answer.

John bites his lower lip nervously. “I don’t… I don’t know. I understand it’s not the answer you need right now, but… I really don’t know. Can you… accept it? That I don’t know?”

Sherlock has to bite his own lip too, but it’s not out of nervousness. It is to repress a smile. Mary was right then, there was a chance, she knew, and trusting her is probably the best decision Sherlock has ever made in his whole life.

He can live with John not knowing, because it means soon there will be a definite answer. It might be a rejection, but it might not be, and never in his life has doubt been so beautiful.

“It’s hardly the first time you lack knowledge on a subject,” Sherlock says eventually, earning himself the faintest giggle from John.

Their hands are still joined together. Sherlock gives a light squeeze.

“So you said nothing is going to change,” he says after a second of silence. Now that the long term effects are sorted out, he needs to understand how their relationship is going to work on a daily basis while John figures himself out, and possibly afterwards, should the outcome be unfavourable.

“You’re still my best friend… nothing will change that,” John says confidently. “We’re family.”

Sherlock can’t help smiling at that label that he himself attached to John the day the bomb exploded. It’s incredibly relieving to know that however things will turn out, they’re family.

A part of him wants to ask John more detailed questions, like if he’ll be still allowed physical contact. Now for example, Sherlock feels would be the right moment for a hug.

He doesn’t ask, and soon John goes back to the other side of the table. Sherlock’s hands feel cold now that they’re not being held anymore.

“What about Irene Adler?” John asks after a minute or so, out of the blue.

Sherlock realises that John’s mind is probably working full speed now. “What about her?”

“Well, you know… you saved her life… you admitted you text her… she knows your birthday… I thought, you know, you were… interested.”

“I saved her life because I am a decent human being, contrary to popular belief, and she had done nothing to deserve her death,” Sherlock says. “The other two… I suppose I can say I text her because she’s a friend.”

John laughs at that definition, and Sherlock tells him about their meeting in Russia, although he’d promised her not to disclose it.

“So you were never in love with her,” John says.

“No,” Sherlock replies. A second later, an amused smile appears on his mouth as a memory resurfaces in his mind. Mary had said so, that John believed Sherlock was in love with Irene.

“What?” John asks noticing the subtle change of mood.

“Mary told me you believed I had feelings for Irene,” Sherlock replies, watching John’s expression go from curious to startled as he adds a piece of the puzzle.

For some reason, so far John thought Mary was _assuming_ everything about Sherlock’s feelings, that she had deduced them.

But of course, of course it’s clear now that they actually talked about it.

“Mary knew because you told her,” John says. “You talked to her about your feelings for me.”

“Yes, I did.”

John knew Sherlock and Mary were friends, but he had no idea they were this close, so much that Sherlock trusted her enough to reveal his feelings. It makes John feel a bit better, though, to know that said feelings weren’t so blatant to be caught by a third eye. It means he can stop wondering how he managed to miss them. They actually were well hidden.

“What did she say?” John asks then, curiosity back in his voice.

Before Sherlock can reply, John figures out the answer by himself. “She told you to go for it. Of course.”

Sherlock nods with a fond smile. “Obviously,” he echoes, mentally thanking Mary because he would have never gone for it if it wasn’t for her.

John doesn’t ask any further questions that evening, but his mind spins and spins, reliving the last seven years of his life in the light of tonight’s revelation. A lot of things take a different meaning. That’s why the drugs while John was on his honeymoon. That’s why Sherlock left the wedding early. And the thing he said on the tarmac, ‘Sherlock is actually a girl’s name’, John understands now what Sherlock had meant to say instead.

And yet, Sherlock never complained, he always put John and his happiness first.

A couple of hours later, when they’re both pyjama clad and ready for bed, they bump into each other as John walks out of Rosie’s room and Sherlock of the bathroom.

“Good night John,” Sherlock says. He’s going to proceed in the direction of the guest room, but John stops him wrapping his arms around the detective’s waist.

Sherlock melts into the hug, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. They’re still allowed to hug, then.

They hold each other in silence for a minute while John mentally thanks him for every little thing Sherlock has done for him over the years.

Definitely the best friend anyone could ask for.

“Good night Sherlock,” John whispers.

Albeit reluctantly, Sherlock has to let go.

**

Mary didn’t die for Sherlock to forget about his sister.

He visits Eurus regularly once or twice a month, mostly on Sundays. A one hour and a half helicopter ride is what takes him to fly from Central London to the small island where Sherrinford is located.

He always brings his violin along, because Eurus doesn’t speak anymore, and the only way they can communicate is through music. So they do, they play in unison, Bach or Mozart or Vivaldi or whatever they are feeling, and they keep playing until their arms are cramping. 

Sherlock’s memories of her resurface gradually, week after week, he starts to remember her face first, then her voice, then the things they used to do together. Distant, faded memories become more and more vivid with the tune of their violins.

He remembers her playing, when she was so young it was hard to find a violin that would fit her tiny hands. Mummy had travel to London to find one, because Eurus was only two when she started showing interest towards music and the local music shop in their town didn’t have a violin that small. Sherlock remembers that he was out playing, or bothering Mycroft, and the house would fill with a soothing melody coming from Eurus’s room. She taught him how to play, when he was five and she was four, but it took him years to master that art the way she had.

She’s still the best player between them. Sometimes he wishes he could stop playing for a moment, and just listen to her, but he can’t. If he stops, she stops, and the contact is broken, and that’s the last thing he wants.

He’s here for her, to be with her and let her feel she’s loved, no matter what.

One day, instead of playing a renowned classic, she plays something different. He stops, frowning, thinking that maybe it’s a minor work and he doesn’t know it, but no, this is different.

Eurus is playing herself.

He listens and learns and memorises and then when she starts all over again, he plays too.

He is rewarded with a thankful smile and it’s so much more than he was asking for.

Another Sunday she lets him teach her a song he composed, filling his heart with joy. He picks the waltz he’d written for John and Mary.

Usually once they’re done playing, he puts his violin back in its black case, he waves goodbye and leaves. She doesn’t do anything. She remains still, watching him through the glass, her eyes back to being cold and unresponsive.

That day, however, something is different. When he looks up to wave goodbye, her hand is resting against the glass and her eyes are piercing his in an attempt to catch his attention.

Sherlock immediately walks closer and rests his hand above hers. She wants something, he can sense it, he can read it.

“Eurus, what do you need?” he asks softly. He hasn’t spoken actual words to her since they rescued John from the well.

Her lips remain sealed, but her eyes, oh, her eyes, those are pleading him for something he can’t understand.

“I’m here for you, but I need you to tell me what you need,” he repeats.

The only thing she does this time is to glance at their joined hands, and somehow it is enough for him to finally understand.

It takes him ten minutes to convince the guards that he needs to enter her cell, that he needs to go beyond the glass, and that no, she isn’t going to hurt him. Two armed guards take him there, the door to her cell is as thick as the one in the Tower of London, the one that gives access to the Royal jewellery.

As soon as Eurus sees him approaching with no glass barrier between them, she closes the distance between them and falls into his arms.

He holds her, like he did that night, he holds her whispering to her ear that everything is okay, that he’s there for her.

It turns out they have two ways of communicating instead of one.

Now, every Sunday that he visits, they start playing their violins, and then at some point she does something to signal her desire to have him inside the cell. Every time he complies, holding her and talking to her. Once he brings with him an old photo album that his parents kept hidden, and he shows it to her, sitting next to her at her desk. It’s full of pictures of their early childhood, and Sherlock still wonders how on earth he could have forgotten about her.

Among all the pictures there’s one with all five of them, shot in the garden on a nice summer day. The colours aren’t bright anymore, they probably never were, and time has added a layer of sepia to the tones, but Sherlock finds it beautiful.

“See Eurus? This is our family, do you remember?” he asks softly. “This is you,” he adds, tapping with his forefinger the happy little girl on the picture. “This is me.” He snickers because he has his pirate hat on. “This is Mycroft.” He snickers some more at the face of his young big brother who definitely looks like he wasn’t amused by whatever they were doing. “This is Mummy, and this is Dad… do you recognise them? They came here to see you last month.”

He doesn’t expect her to reply, she never does. She usually nods to acknowledge his words, or smiles at most. This time instead he’s shocked to hear her feeble voice pronounce one distinct word.

“Family.”

He grins, looking at her in disbelief. “Yes Eurus, family. This is our family.”

Sherlock tries to get her to say something else, and fails miserably. It’s okay though, he thinks. She’s said a word, and even that one word is a sensible improvement considered she hasn’t spoken in six months.

For the first time, Sherlock believes she’s going to be okay eventually.

He brings more photo albums the following time. Even if she stops being in the pictures at some point, she still looks at them with interest, listening to her brother’s voice narrating the events behind every single shot, at least what he remembers. Which is surprisingly more than he imagined. Some things he thought he’d deleted years ago, but it turns out they’re still there, buried somewhere in his mind palace.

At some point, among the photos of Sherlock’s graduation from university, an odd one pops out. It’s from Rosie’s Christening. Sherlock remembers his parents asking for a copy of that photo, but he doesn’t know how it ended up in there.

He’s going to dismiss it and put it aside, but Eurus stops him.

“Family,” she whispers.

He frowns, his glance traveling from her to the album. “What did you say?”

With a shy movement she rests her open hand above the recent picture. “Family,” she repeats more firmly.

He takes the photo in his hand, observing him as a smile makes its way on his face. There’s all of them, John, Mary, Molly, Greg, Mrs Hudson. They all have the brightest smile that lights up their whole faces, except for Sherlock, who looks serious as always and has his phone hidden behind his back.

That was such a happy day. If he’d known what would have happened in the following months, he would have enjoyed it more, spent less time on Twitter and more in the company of his friends. Of his family.

“Yes, Eurus, family. That’s correct,” he says, his eyes studying the picture to take in every single detail, his heart swelling in his chest because every single person in this photo has loved him and made him the man he is today, and if that isn’t the definition of a family he doesn’t know what is.

“This is John, do you remember John? You know him,” he whispers, mindlessly tracing the contours of John’s face. It’s been months since Sherlock declared his love to him and nothing has changed, for better nor for worse. Sherlock is starting to accept that this silence is John’s way to let him know that the sentiment is unrequited. He’ll be fine with it. As long as John is his best friend and they solve cases together, as long as they live together and cuddle up on the sofa when they feel like it, as long as Sherlock can play with Rosie and read her a bedtime stories, he’ll be fine with not being in a romantic relationship with John.

“This is Molly, you know her too… she’s a great friend, you know, she’s always there when you need her… this is Greg, he works for Scotland Yard, I think you’ve met him that night… he’s a brave man, and kind, and has the patience of a saint… this is Mrs Hudson, she’s my landlady… she makes the best tea, and the best fry-up too… you’d like her very much, all of them…”

His finger slides down until it rests above Mary.

“This is Mary… she was a bit my sister too,” he says. “She isn’t with us anymore, she… she passed away last year…” He wonders if he’ll ever be able to talk about her without his throat tightening. “She died to save my life…”

He feels Eurus’s eyes on him and he gives her a little smile before looking at the photo again.

His smile grows wider. “… and she gave me the most beautiful gift I’ll ever receive…”

He caresses the image of Rosie with the pad of his finger. She was so tiny, he thinks, she would fit perfectly in Mary’s arms. Now she seems to grow a bit taller every day, she’s constantly learning new things, she runs around 221B and her laughter fills the air. Sherlock loves her more than he can say. It’s like the amount of love he feels for John and Mary had summed up together and completely taken over his heart.

He can’t even fathom his life without her, and he’s already dreading the moment John will move out taking Rosie with him. It will happen, sooner or later, because of logistics if not because of John meeting another woman. Still, Sherlock sometimes lets himself indulge in dreaming a life where he and John are together, and he himself is the second parent that Rosie deserves.

“This is Rosie… she’s my-John’s, John’s daughter,” he says eventually. “Your niece.”

Eurus takes the picture from Sherlock’s hands, staring at it, touching it with reverence.

And Sherlock gets an idea.

He has to run it by Mycroft first, so he books an appointment with him the following week.

“Have you gone mad?” Mycroft asks after having heard Sherlock’s idea.

“It’s nothing unreasonable.”

“Nothing unreasonable you say?! You want Eurus to have _tea_ at Baker Street, as if she was an old friend!”

“She sort of is, don’t you think?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath trying not to lose his calm. “She is a murderer. A psychopath.”

“She’s my sister,” Sherlock replies just as calmly.

“She is my sister too, but this doesn’t erase what she has done.”

Sherlock leans on his elbows on the desk. “Even murderers are regularly granted visitation rights with their families.”

Mycroft sits back against his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock thinks he’s getting somewhere.

“Plus I have assessed her, and I firmly believe she is harmless,” he adds.

“How do you know?” Mycroft asks, his arms crossed to his chest.

Sherlock doesn’t have an answer to this. He feels it, that she isn’t dangerous anymore, and he believes spending some time away from Sherrinford might be good for her mental health. He even hopes that soon she’ll recover enough to be transferred to a normal detention facility, one with normal visitation hours and that is possibly reachable with a cab instead of an helicopter.

He tells Mycroft all of this, getting a nod of acceptance in return.

“Fine,” Mycroft says. “But this is a massive liability for the government, so I request the presence of two armed men with you at all times, in case something goes wrong.”

Sherlock smirks. “With _us_? You’re invited too.”

Mycroft frowns. “I am… invited?” he asks, doing nothing to mask his confusion.

“You’re family, of course you’re invited.”

For a second, Sherlock believes the tiniest hint of a smile has crooked his brother’s lips.

“You know I dislike this kind of social gatherings,” Mycroft says next. “But I’ll check my schedule and RSVP.”

“Greg will be there too… Greg Lestrade,” Sherlock says, hiding his own smile behind his joined hands when Mycroft’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and even more confused.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I just wanted to let you know that other people are invited... and that Greg is one of them… In case this influences your decision.”

“It doesn’t,” Mycroft states immediately, just the lightest flush across his cheeks. “Why would it?”

“Oh, no reason at all.”

After that, Sherlock quickly leaves, hiding a giggle and ignoring his brother’s question that is getting shouted at his back.

“Sherlock, what are you implying?!”

Telling John is a whole different story.

“She tried to kill us, and you want to bring her here?!” John says, startled, pacing up and down the sitting room.

“She isn’t dangerous anymore,” Sherlock explains from his chair, “and there will be armed guards just in case.”

“She _chained_ me to the bottom of a bloody well and now what, I’m supposed to treat her like family? No.”

“She’s my sister, John, and she needs…” Love. Understanding. “She _needs_ a family.”

“Your parents are her family, have lunch there. For sure they’ll be happier than I am.”

I don’t want to have lunch there, Sherlock thinks. He does love his parents, very much, but they can be quite anxious at times, they would assail Eurus with questions and expectations, and the atmosphere would be tense and overorganised, and Sherlock doesn’t want that. He wants his sister to see a relaxed, loving environment. He wants her to meet the family he handpicked for himself.

“She’s not that person anymore. She has changed, believe me,” Sherlock says without addressing John’s remark.

John’s hands are firm on his hips. “Sherlock, no. Plus there’s Rosie here, there’s no way I’m letting a serial killer anywhere near my daughter.”

“Eurus would never hurt Rosie,” Sherlock says promptly.

John scoffs. “Yes, because she’s never hurt children before. Never killed them, never drowned them in a well.”

Sherlock glances down, knowing that John has his reason to be concerned, but also knowing in his heart that the Eurus he’s been visiting with regularity would never harm a living thing, let alone a little girl.

“Trust me, John, she isn’t—“

“She isn’t that person anymore, she’s changed, I know, you’ve said that already,” John hisses. “But what if she isn’t? What if this is all an act to play another sick game with us?”

“It isn’t, I know it isn’t.”

“This is not up for discussion, Sherlock, I am not putting Rosie in danger. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her.”

At this point, Sherlock starts losing his cool. John hasn’t met Eurus again after the night at Sherrinford, John doesn’t know how much she has changed.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, John, listen to me! No one will be in danger, Eurus is—“

“Norbury, Sherlock.”

Mrs Hudson’s voice reaches his ears, making his words suddenly die in his throat. Glancing sideways, he sees her leaning on the doorway, her head tilted down, a disappointed look in her eyes. Clearly she’s been there for a while.

And she’s right.

John is right.

The risk is minimum, but it exists.

“Thank you Mrs Hudson,” he whispers, looking down at his hands in his lap. He was going to make the mistake once again. John said he couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to Rosie, and Sherlock knows he couldn’t either.

“Norbury? What is that?” John asks, a question that both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson ignore.

“If we find someone to babysit Rosie, can Eurus come here?” Sherlock asks tentatively, his eyes rising to meet John’s.

The doctor’s expression is still confused but has softened a bit.

“I think it’s a good compromise,” Mrs Hudson says, approaching them. “Personally I would love to meet your sister, Sherlock,” she adds, her hand rubbing his upper arm.

Eurus has destroyed part of her house, and yet Mrs Hudson is willing to meet her, just because it’s important to Sherlock. He’ll never be grateful enough for her presence.

Under his friend’s and landlady’s inquisitive gaze, John slumps in his chair. “You said there will be guards here.”

“The whole time, yes,” Sherlock confirms, taking strength from Mrs Hudson’s warm hand on his shoulder.

John nods at this point, though still unsure, his hand rubbing his forehead. “Mh, okay… but Rosie isn’t staying.”

“We’ll find someone to watch her for a few hours,” Sherlock says, unable to hide a relieved grin.

**

Sherlock loves the way everyone treats his sister nicely, in spite of everything she’s done. They treat her like the human being Sherlock knows she is, and he’ll be forever grateful to all his friends for this. They’re doing this for him, after all.

Eurus never speaks, but Sherlock wasn’t expecting her to. However, she does smile, from time to time, like when Mrs Hudson offers her the first cup of tea, or when everyone compliments her after she plays a duet with Sherlock on their violins.

A smile is all Sherlock could have asked for the day.

Although this was mainly about showing family to Eurus, Sherlock figured it would be a good occasion for Mycroft as well, who eventually did join the gathering. Sherlock secretly keeps an eye on his brother, studying his interactions. As foreseen, Mycroft seems to particularly enjoy Lestrade’s company, evidence supported by the ridiculous amount of time the two men spend discussing politics, among other topics. Such a scene makes Sherlock smile fondly – it’s about time his brother found himself a goldfish.

When Sherlock escorts Eurus back to the helicopter that will take her back to Sherrinford, she finally says the first words of the day.

“Thanks,” she whispers. It’s enough to make Sherlock’s heart melt.

“We’ll do this again, I promise,” Sherlock says, before pressing a kiss on her forehead. It’s a promise he intends to keep.

Back at Baker Street, he’s surprised to see that everyone is still there, including Mycroft, and that Rosie is back too.

“Lock!” the little girl utters joyously as soon as she sees him, walking towards him with a pace that is quick and not as clumsy as it used to be. He picks her up immediately, thinking she’s growing up remarkably fast.

Just weeks ago, he used to be ‘Lo’ and John used to be ‘Da’. Now they’re Lock and Daddy, though Sherlock sometimes reverts to Lo when she’s tired. The only name Rosie has mastered is Molly, while Greg sounds somewhat similar to egg.

Mrs Hudson is Nana. No one really knows how that happened, because no one ever referred to her as Nana, but after a day spent at John’s parents’, Rosie came home and started calling Mrs Hudson ‘Nana’. John never corrected her.

Mycroft obviously is Mike, and that’s a bit Sherlock’s fault.

“Rosie, this is Uncle Mike,” Sherlock cooed to Rosie’s ear, the day he finally introduced her to his brother, on her first birthday. “Say hi to uncle Mike,” he said, waving his hand and watching Rosie do the same.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear Rosamund,” Mycroft said, talking as if she was an adult. “My name is Mycroft, by the way.”

“She can’t say that,” Sherlock pointed out.

“She’ll never learn if you don’t teach her,” Mycroft remarked.

Name issue aside, Mycroft didn’t show much interest in Rosie at first.

“It’s nothing personal, Sherlock,” he explained. “I’m as interested in her as I am in any other human being… so not at all, to clarify.”

Gradually he warmed up to her the way he does with all people that find him charming and funny.

“Up,” Rosie uttered, stretching her little arms upwards towards Mycroft, who sat in John’s chair discussing the latest case with his brother.

Mycroft glanced quickly at Sherlock. “What does she want?” he asked.

Sherlock had to focus really hard not to laugh at the look of pure terror in Mycroft’s eyes. “She wants you to pick her up… obviously.”

While he spoke, Rosie had started pulling Mycroft’s trousers, leaving the man no other choice than pull her up into his lap, giving her the most awkward smile Sherlock had ever seen on anyone.

“Doggy,” Rosie said next, showing Mycroft the little stuffed dog she was holding. Mrs Hudson’s gift.

“Yes… that’s a dog,” Mycroft said slowly, still not very confident about this whole situation.

“Doggy, doggy!” Rosie repeated more enthusiastically, and once again Mycroft silently asked his brother for help.

Sherlock leans forward on his elbows against his knees. “She wants you to play. She usually likes when people impersonate her toys.”

“I’m not a ventriloquist, Sherlock.”

“You do voices though,” Sherlock said with a knowing smile. The memories are confused and a bit faded, but he remembers Mycroft doing voices for him and Eurus when they were children.

“I used to, when I was a child myself,” Mycroft remarked.

“She’ll start crying if you don’t.”

At those words, Mycroft promptly took the stuffed dog from Rosie’s tiny hands. “Hello Rosamund, I am Mr Doggy. How do you do?” he said with a nasal voice down one tone from his usual one, moving the toy towards Rosie’s nose.

Sherlock caught the hint of smile that appeared on his brother’s lips the second Rosie started laughing.

“I would like to inform you that you can add me at the bottom of the list of people who can babysit Rosamund,” Mycroft said that same day, just as he was leaving.

“You want to babysit her?” Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised.

“I said you are free to add me at the bottom of the list. If no one else is available, I can perform the task.”

Sherlock read between the lines, and since then has made sure to regularly ask Mycroft to babysit. And slowly the Ice Man, the brilliant Mycroft Holmes, grew fond of Rosie Watson.

Once Greg and Molly have left, and while John helps Mrs Hudson with the dishes, Sherlock and Mycroft put Rosie to bed together.

“There’s an East Wind coming, Rosamund,” Mycroft whispers to Rosie.

“Eat wind,” she repeats.

“Yes, East Wind… It’s a force that brings joy and happy dreams to all children…”

Sherlock smile happily at those words. The day has definitely been a success under every point of view.

Much later than evening, everything has gone back to usual routine. Sherlock and John sit across each other, in their respective chairs.

John slowly sips his cup of tea. “What you did today was amazing,” he says.

“Thank you John, but I did nothing remarkable.”

“Nothing remarkable? The way you’re helping your sister after everything she’s done, that’s not remarkable, that’s… extraordinary,” John says, a realisation sinking down on him. He plays with the almost empty mug in his hands, the liquid inside spinning with the motion. “ _You_ are extraordinary,” he adds, almost a whisper.

Sherlock mutters something else, downplaying his actions, but John isn’t listening anymore. He gulps down all of his remaining tea in one sip, putting the cup back in its saucer with a clink. Suddenly everything is clear, so obvious that John feels his heart might explode in his chest if he waits one more second.

In a swift movement, he jumps up from his chair and leans over towards Sherlock, leaning both hands on the armrests. Sherlock is still speaking when John silences him by pressing his lips against the detective’s plump ones.

The entire world stops and ceases existing, the only thing that Sherlock’s mind can register is the contact with John’s lips, his warmth and his taste of Chai tea. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and over way too quickly. John pulls back after just two seconds, leaving Sherlock wide-eyed and flushed, his mouth agape, his heart beating so hard that he can feel it in his ears.

Sherlock blinks, repeatedly, almost floating, his stomach filled with butterflies. John has kissed him, for real, not on his cheek, not on his forehead, on his lips, a true kiss.

“Sherlock?”

After months of silence on the topic and years of denial, John has decided to kiss him, and oh, wasn’t it pure perfection. Sherlock has kissed before, but none of it was like this, this powerful and overwhelming and utterly flawless.

“Oi, Sherlock, are you okay?”

Never, even in his wildest dreams, could Sherlock imagine John would have kissed him eventually, would have chosen him. Because that’s what John has done, he has chosen Sherlock as his partner, in life as well as in work.

“I, er… I suppose I should leave you some space.”

Sherlock finally snaps back to reality as a rush of cold air hits him, sign that John has moved away and is now sitting back in his chair, expectantly gazing at Sherlock. As he nervously tortures his lower lip with his teeth, John starts wondering if he’s made a mistake, if impulse has lead him down the wrong way. Sherlock confessed his love months ago, and neither of them mentioned the topic again after that night. What if Sherlock has moved on, John wonders with growing concern.

“Look, Sherlock, if I’ve just made a massive mistake, please—“

“You kissed me,” Sherlock interrupts, his hands joined in his lap, a light shade of pink colouring his cheeks with emotion.

John relaxes a little, his lips curling up in a lopsided smile. “Yes I did... I’m sorry it took so long… I-I wasn’t ready.”

Sherlock knows John has just summed up six months of doubt and constant questioning and old feelings and residual guilt in one simple sentence, but for once in his life he doesn’t really care about explanations.

“So in fact you’re ready, now?” is all Sherlock wants to know.

The smile on John’s face widens. “I am, yes… if you are.”

“I am.”

“Okay, good, that’s good.”

“So are we agreeing we are entering a relationship?”

A laughter erupts from John’s chest, because this is definitely the least smooth start he’s ever experienced, but then again, this is Sherlock. Of course things would be different.

“It’s fine by me, yes,” John replies, and for the first time since the beginning of this discussion, the straight expression on Sherlock’s face gives way to a shy, v-shaped smile.

This is all real, then.

“Am I allowed to kiss you again?” Sherlock asks.

“Come here.”

Sherlock does. He joins John on his chair, sitting half on his lap and half in the tight gap between John’s hip and the chair itself, their arms tangled around each other. It’s vaguely awkward, but neither of them seems to care.

John snickers lightly. “I’ve never dated anyone taller than me.”

“You’re not that tall.”

“Yes well, I usually pick shorter partners.”

Sherlock blinks. “Is this a deal breaker?”

John can’t help smiling adoringly at Sherlock’s genuine concern. John decides to answer with a gesture instead of words, and he brushes his lips against Sherlock’s once more, his heart melting as he feels Sherlock going rigid in his arm for a second before relaxing completely into the kiss.

At first it’s just lips on lips, brushing, pecking, nose against nose, getting to know each other from this new exciting perspective. Much to John’s surprise, it’s Sherlock the one who deepens the kiss, his tongue probing John’s lower lip the way Janine taught him, to ask him for access. Finally those skills are coming in handy, Sherlock thinks in a moment of rationality, before starting his exploration of John’s mouth and making everything disappear, except John’s warmth and smell and taste and the way his tongue is slowly dancing with Sherlock’s.

Definitely not revolting. Splendid. Amazing. He catalogues everything, for future reference.

John hand is on Sherlock’s nape, gently but firmly pressing the detective more into him, never letting go. John breaks the kiss snickering once again when his other hand finds its way across Sherlock’s flat chest.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“Sorry, I’ve never… you know, I’m more used to…” John stutters, giving up when he realises Sherlock is not following, and the topic doesn’t really matter anyway. “Never mind.”

He presses his lips against Sherlock’s mouth again. They go on for what feels like hours, tasting and teasing and exploring, hands combing hair and rubbing backs, and soon what started as a sweet tentative becomes much more heated.

A low hum escapes John’s throat the second Sherlock nibbles at his lower lip, a sound that somehow goes straight to a part of Sherlock that he wasn’t expecting. His cock twitches with interest in his pants, surprising Sherlock almost enough to distract him.

Fascinating, he thinks. He usually gets erections because of physiology, or chemicals, or himself mindlessly tugging at his own penis when he is very bored. He never really got an erection in presence of another person before.

But then again, he’d never kissed John Watson.

However, as his blood keeps rushing south making his cock harder and harder in his pants, some doubts cloud his mind as well. He seizes the occasion to voice them the moment John breaks the kiss to take a breath.

“What are the rules of this new relationship?” Sherlock asks, forcing himself to appear calm in spite of the situation.

John frowns, his pupils noticeably dilated. “Wha-what? Rules?”

“Yes, rules. What does this relationship entail?”

“I, er… I don’t know… there are no rules, we just do us,” is John’s attempt at an answer. The doctor leans forward trying to resume the kiss, but this time Sherlock avoids him.

“Are we going to go on dates?” the detective asks.

“Dates? Er… if you want to, yes, why not.”

“Are we going to sleep in the same bed on a regular basis?”

“Again, if you want to, I’m all for it,” John replies giving Sherlock a knowing smile. It’s not as if they’ve never shared a bed before.

Sherlock bites his own lower lip before proceeding to the next question, the one he actually wanted to ask. “Are we going to have sexual intercourse?”

This time, John’s tongue darts out to wet his upper lip, his smile becoming something Sherlock has never seen before directed to himself. To Mary a few times, but never to himself before. Flirty, he would define it.

“I should hope so,” John whispers, his voice so low that it almost vibrates in the air. He pulls Sherlock down to resume their kiss, without noticing the level of anxiety in the detective is suddenly much higher.

John wants to have sex. Obviously. John is a sexual man, of course he wants to have sex. One would say Sherlock wants it too, as it is evident by the arousal in his pants that has only flagged a little bit. He opens his eyes to glance down, immediately observing that John is finding himself in the same situation.

Flattering and alarming at the same time. Sherlock wants to make John feel good, he wants to feel the texture of John’s skin under his fingertips on every inch of his body. There’s no doubt on Sherlock’s willingness to pleasure John. The mere idea of John writhing and moaning in Sherlock’s arms, because of Sherlock’s ministrations, makes the detective’s cock harden further.

It is the opposite scenario that seems to be cause for concern. The idea of losing control, of feeling his mind shut down even momentarily. That alarms him.

“What’s wrong? Did I says something…?” John asks softly, his eyebrows furrowed, noticing Sherlock wasn’t responding to the kiss as eagerly as before. “You… you don’t want to have sex?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, registering the concern in John’s eyes and realising the stakes are high but honesty is necessary. “John, I think you should know that my experience on the field is _extremely_ limited.”

“Limited? What do you…” John starts, clearly confused but figuring it out during the sentence. “Oh.” He’s almost grinning now. So Mycroft wasn’t lying that time, Sherlock is in fact a virgin. The last virgin partner John had was in his first year at university, and he knows it’s almost animalistic, but the idea that Sherlock Holmes, gorgeous genius, is untouched by anyone makes all of John’s blood rush southwards. He imagines for a moment the world’s only consulting detective spread out beneath him, pale skin covered in sweat and goosebumps, muscles trembling and contracting under his touch, shaky whimpers and lustful moans of pleasure.

If he’s honest with himself, he can hardly wait.

“It’s fine,” John adds, licking his lips. “It’s going to be a first time for me too.”

“With a man?”

“With my best friend of seven years, I was going to say… but yes, with a man too,” John says, as he softly strokes Sherlock’s cheek and prepares to kiss him again. “We’ll take it slowly.”

Sherlock finds himself nodding, a part of him knowing everything will be fine. This is John, and everything that involves John is good, from cases to kisses. Sex will be no different, he tells himself.

John’s hand entangles in Sherlock’s hair and pulls him down to resume their kiss. They kiss, and kiss, for minutes, or hours, who knows. Sherlock revels in the caresses of John’s tongue on his own, of John taste in his mouth and all over him, torn between the thought that they should have done this seven years ago and the awareness that, if they had, Sherlock now wouldn’t have Rosie. His goddaughter? Or just daughter, perhaps, now that he is in a relationship with John?

It’s an idea that thrills him, and a topic he decides he will bring up at some point.

“Are we getting a dog?” Sherlock asks instead, his breath laboured, his lips swollen.

“A-a dog? What?” John asks, obviously disoriented by the sudden change of topic, and wondering what exactly is going on in Sherlock’s mind that makes him think of dogs while they make out.

“For Rosie.”

“A dog for Rosie?” John repeats.

“Yes, John, do try to keep up, it’s not that difficult.”

“Do try to fill me in,” John remarks. They might be in a relationship now, but Sherlock Holmes is still a cock. “Why do you-why? What’s this about?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Since it’s very likely she won’t have siblings, I thought a dog would be beneficial for her.”

The frown on John’s face fades gradually, replaced by a playful smile. “For her, huh? So this has nothing to do with your own wish to have a dog?”

When Sherlock looks down, guilty, instead of answering, John knows he’s said the right thing. He can’t help giggling.

“We’ll think about it, okay?” John adds. ”Maybe a small one, to begin with.”

As John tries to close the gap between their mouths, Sherlock stops him with a finger. John just accepts they aren’t going to have a normal make out session, probably ever. As if it’s normal to have a make out session at forty-four, he thinks.

“Where are we sleeping?” Sherlock asks. “Upstairs or downstairs?”

“I-I don’t know… I didn’t think about it.”

“I think the best option is having our room downstairs, and Rosie’s upstairs,” Sherlock says. “It might not seem a good solution for now, but I believe it is on the long run. She’ll like her privacy when she’s a bit older and she wants to study, or have friends over, or sexual partn—“

“Sherlock! Sherlock, I’m going to stop you here.” John clears his throat nervously. “Look, I’m very flattered that you’ve, er… thought this through… but if there’s one thing I never want to talk about, ever, is my toddler daughter’s future sex life. Okay? But we can take your room, yes.”

Not that John cares about the room, or a potential dog, or dinner dates. He has finally made peace with himself, and found the strength in his heart to let himself be happy again. And he is, now, happy, in Baker Street, with his daughter asleep upstairs and Sherlock Holmes all tall and brainy and adorable in his lap.

Finally, after months, maybe years of lies, John has come to terms with his feelings, with the fact that he’s in love with his best friend, a man, not that being male is, after all, Sherlock’s most remarkable feature.

It’s fine. He’s happy. Being with Sherlock makes him happy. Nothing else matters.

“Can I kiss you again now, or do you have other questions?” John asks, briefly licking his lips in anticipation. “Because I really like kissing you.”

Sherlock nods, the faintest hint of a rosiness spreading across his cheeks. “I like kissing you too. You can… proceed.”

John does, eagerly.

As it turns out, the Baker Street boys will engage in various activities in their scruffy flat. Not just arguing.

_THE END_


End file.
